Jordan Taylor. Black hoodie, grey shorts, trainers. The man was ridiculously attractive, with a laid-back Aussie charm that made you want to…well, fan yourself. His hair was still damp, curling a bit at his forehead. His scent hit me next. He smelled of fresh shower, warm skin, a hint of shower gel, and something else—something sharper that I couldn’t quite identify, but definitely wanted more of.
And his grin when he saw me…it wasn’t polite or casual. It was immediate. Like it had been waiting all day for me on the other side of this door.
It hit me low in my stomach, the same place my insecurity had been curling since I’d found out I was older than him. Not that he’d seemed to care, but it was there in the back of my mind, whispering that women like me weren’t supposed to get looks like that, from men like him.
And yet…here he was, looking at me like I was the very thing he’d been hoping for.
For a second, I almost couldn’t catch my breath. I’d told myself this was just fun. It was safer that way. But the way he was looking at me now, warm and controlled like I was already his, felt like a direct hit to every place I’d ever been left wanting.
And it terrified me almost as much as it thrilled me.
Chapter Sixteen
Jordan
For a solid two seconds,I forgot how to breathe.
She was standing there looking like every bad decision I was about to make this week. She wore a tight, black halter that clung to her tits like it had been sewn on for me, loose trousers slung low on her hips, blonde hair wild, sexy and swept to one side like she’d just rolled out of bed. No—my bed.
My brain hit me with a full-colour highlight reel of last night. Her knees clamped around my ribs, nails clawing down my back, head tipped as she came with my name wrecked on her lips.
Jesus. I shook my head and cleared my throat, trying not to look like I’d just been kicked in the chest.
“Hi,” I managed, all casual and polite. Like I hadn’t spent the entire night fucking her into oblivion.
She smiled, just a little, but her eyes glinted with mischief. I wondered if she knew exactly what I was remembering. But judging by the way she was blushing, she was remembering it herself.
Gwen stood like a bouncer at the door…arms crossed, daring me to screw this up. I respected the hell out of it. You could tell they were ride-or-die.
“Be good to her, Taylor.”
I met her eyes. “I promise I will.”
And I meant it. Every single word. Because no matter how filthy last night had been—and fuck, it had been filthy—there was something about Kate that made me want to try. Show up properly. Be the man she let back in.
I pulled myself together as Kate stepped down toward the curb and spotted the car.
“Seriously?” she asked, pointing at it. “Couldn’t find a wankier car to pick me up in?”
My Porsche SUV. Jesus, girls usually loved the car. Shit. That’s when I realised, she was going to call me out on all my crap, wasn’t she? And I liked it. She wasn’t going to be fooled by the shiny stuff, which meant I had to up my game if I was going to impress her. “Hey! This is low-key by tennis standards.”
She raised a brow, lips twitching. “Oh, my mistake. I thought you were taking me to dinner, not to a GQ cover shoot.”
I grinned. Couldn’t help it. She was a firecracker. All I could think about was getting her back into that shirt she’d left at my flat and nothing else.
I opened the door for her, resisting the urge to pin her against it and kiss her right then and there in front of Gwen. It was torture. I pressed a warm hand to her lower back instead, guiding her in. That perfume hit me like a drug all over again. I made a mental note to find out exactly what it was.
By the time I rounded the car, I caught my reflection in the windscreen, grinning like an idiot. Like I’d already won Wimbledon.
She didn’t care about the car, or the labels, or the crowd waiting for me tomorrow. She saw through all the showy bullshit. None of that seemed to matter to her. She looked at me like I was just me. A man. Hers, maybe. And yeah, my knees went a bit weak at that thought.
I slid in beside her, trying to keep my hands to myself.
“So,” she said, buckling up, her eyes bright, “what are we listening to? Please don’t tell me you’ve got club bangers lined up to accompany this midlife crisis.” She gestured around the car.
I grinned and shook my head. Without a word, I tapped the steering wheel, then let “Worst Way” roll in.
She blinked. “Riley Green? You listen to this?”
