Maybe I’m a bitch because I don’t know how else I put on the fakest smile I can manage and say, “So glad you agree.”
Jack’s thumb brushes the side of my hip. I tip my head up and catch him smiling. He leans down, steering us away. “Fuck, I hate that prick. She doesn’t know it, but he has a girlfriend who lives a few towns over.”
“Well, that’s reassuring.”
“I didn’t sayIhad another girlfriend.”
“Just me.” I push myself up to my toes to whisper against his ear. “The fake one.”
Jack shakes his head, brushing his thumb over my chin so our eyes meet. “I licked it. You’re mine now.”
I giggle. “Very mature.”
He shrugs, pulling me close.
Something about me being half twisted up in Jack must draw more attention to us, because a photographer steps forward. “Let’s see a kiss, Murphy.”
Jack bends down, his lips brushing my ear. “That okay?”
It’s not really a question, more a warning. I have seconds to prepare, to guard my heart, to not fall any farther into the black hole that is Jack Murphy’s chaotic life.
But that all shatters the moment he presses his mouth against mine in a chaste kiss.
It’s polite, expected. Safe.
He breaks away, the tip of his nose ghosting across my cheek, his eyes searching mine. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I think of the rules. Of what we agreed to. What this is supposed to be. My fingers curl around his neck, and his warm skin sears my palm as his pulse drums a rapid beat beneath my fingertips.
I always follow the rules. Always do what’s expected of me. I’ve been so afraid to do what I’ve wanted, and I—I don’t want to play safe anymore.
Fuck it.
I lean forward and kiss him back. I want more.
His surprise is a soft “Oh” against my lips before his mouth claims mine, his teeth nipping at my bottom lip. I open for him, and he takes. My hand slips beneath his jacket, resting against his chest, his heart beating wildly beneath my touch. And a sound—needy, real, raw—slips out of me before I can stop it. His tongue sweeps in and deepens our kiss, and the world tilts. I’m not sure if it’s because he’s swept me up and I’ve arched my back like that old-timey sailor and nurse photo, or if it’s just because it’s Jack.
The camera clicks. Someone wolf whistles in the background.
It cuts through my haze, and I stop.
Jack pulls back, lips swollen, touching his forehead against mine for one dizzying second before he straightens. My face is on fire, my pulse thundering. I laugh, too high-pitchedand nervous, brushing it off like this is all part of the act, but I can’t meet his eyes.
Because I know that wasn’t just for a photo.
Before either of us can say any more, he steers me from one conversation to the next—teammates, sponsors, even the mayor’s husband. I smile, nod, sip my champagne. But every time his hand touches my back, every time he laughs, every time he leans in close, it’s torture.
Dinner is amazing, and when it’s time for speeches, his hand finds my thigh under the table. I lean my head against his shoulder, and to everyone else in the room, it probably looks innocent enough.
But he whispers against my ear, “Do you remember what I promised?”
I nod, and his fingers flex higher against my inner thigh.
“Good, I meant it.”
The room is too warm, too loud, tooeverything.
“I need a drink,” I murmur, setting my empty glass on the table, and slip away before he can stop me. I feel like a bluestocking in a Regency romance, desperate to take in some air in the garden, the besotted rake hot on her heels, dizzy with need.
Never understood that until just now.
