Page 87 of Jude

He tasted like Pinot Gris we’d had at dinner, and pure temptation, his lips crushing mine with an intensity that told me he was done fighting himself.

He wanted me.

He craved to consume me, his tongue driving deep, marking his territory.

A breathless moan escaped my throat, a sound of surrender.

I met his aggression with equal desire, wrapping my arms around his neck, pulling myself closer until no air remained between us.

My lips parted for him, returning the bruising rhythm, matching the desperate fire consuming his restraint.

For a chaotic, unhinged ten seconds, our agreement didn’t exist; duty vanished.

There was only his mouth, his sinewed hands gripping my hips to his.

His throbbing erection hit my stomach, making it clear that he found me irresistible.

Then, Jude tore himself away.

He stepped back, his chest heaving as he drew air.

His eyes, flaming and untamed with unchecked passion a second ago, iced over.

A shadow flitted across his features.

He rubbed his healing upper arm, his face hardening.

‘I’ve got to get to the studio,’ he muttered.

He turned on his heel and prowled out of the kitchen, leaving me flushed and aching in the sudden quiet.

Shit was getting tangled. Did he actually want this, or was he playing with me?

Later, I sat on the window seat in my guest suite, wearing his hoodie, which I’d started to wear when alone in my room, and even to bed.

I stared up at the Tennessee night sky while the wind rattled the oak branches outside.

I was so far out of my depth.

I was finally safe from the mafia, but my heart was gone, tangled up with Jude.

I yearned for him to stop fighting the fire between us.

However, if this arrangement ended as soon as my paperwork was finalized, especially given that I was out of danger, I needed the strength to walk away without breaking.

With a sigh, I surrendered to the outcome.

Jude didn’t seem to be in a hurry to end us; heck, the following week he got me a car.

It was a sleek BMW iX3 EV that zipped around the tightest corners with firm precision.

I had my Italian license and knew how to operate a vehicle; I’d also spent years making truck deliveries from the factory floor to towns outside Milan.

We arranged a trip to the local DMV, where I used my federal temporary visa waiver to sit for the written knowledge test.

Within two hours, I had a valid Tennessee driver’s permit in my hands.

The plastic card handed me back my independence.