Beg, Borrow, or Steal (When in Rome, #3)(78)
“I hate saying that word,” I say, breathless and hazy but still willing to put up a fight.
“I might be able to convince you to like it,” he whispers against my ear, and then does something with the hand inside my bra that has me realizing he might be right.
His knuckles are torturously close to where my body is singing with need, but he is still adamant on not moving until he hears what he wants. I happily cave. “Please, Jack. I need you to touch me.”
And he does.
His fingers finally meet me where I’m aching. He kisses up and down my neck as his hands create magic against my body, and maybe it’s because I feel so safe with him, but for the first time, I tip over the edge easily. My eyes close out the world around me as my body chases the sensations of ecstasy winding and pulsing under my skin. And Jack doesn’t gloat that he was able to do what no other man has for me. Instead, he whispers how wonderful I am against the top of my shoulder, sprinkling kisses and compliments everywhere his mouth can reach.
A minute later, I’m spinning around and working the buttons on his shirt, releasing them as quickly as I can until my favorite torso in the world is revealed. I push him back onto the bed, climb onto him until I’m straddling his hips, and then part the fabric of his shirt so I can lay my hands flat against his flexing abdomen. I brush my fingers against the ridges of his stomach, marveling at the intricacies of Jack.
What a sight he is, lying on my bed, shirt flung open, pants low on his waist showing the dark band of his underwear, black tattoos dotting his arms and a beaded necklace at his throat. And of course, the cherry on top: his glasses. He looks edible.
I tip forward, and he leans up to meet my mouth in a toe-curling kiss when my phone rings.
His head drops back defeatedly against the mattress. “Not again.”
I wince, bending to grab my shirt and tug it on quickly. “I’ll be right back. It’s Noah. I usually call him after a big storm to make sure he’s okay, and because I didn’t tonight, he’s probably worried. Let me answer really fast and I’ll be back.”
I make the mistake of looking over my shoulder before leaving. And the sight of Jack sprawled out on my bed with his shirt open is not an easy one to leave. “Right back! So fast!” I say, rushing from the room and into the kitchen.
After answering the phone and in the hastiest way possible telling Noah I’m fine, love you, bye, I hang up and get ready to dart back into my room where I’m going to shuck the pants off of Jack quicker than a—
My laptop is open on the kitchen table. And I have one new email.
Something inside me warns not to click the alert, but I’ve never been very good at listening to warnings. I glide my finger over the track pad and click the email icon. It opens and my eyes collide with a message from Colette Menton.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Jack
It’s been five minutes since I heard her hang up with Noah. At first, I thought maybe she had to go to the bathroom or something, so I’ve been lying in her bed staring at the ceiling wondering how I’m so lucky to be here. Tonight has been a dream. And at the same time, it feels like a fulfilled prophecy. All I’ve been able to think this entire night while holding her and touching her is that I love her. I am so in love with Emily Walker. She knows who I am now—no more secrets—and she still chose me.
I scrape my hands over my face, smiling behind my palms because I am so terrifyingly happy. Finally, I go meet her in the kitchen to see what’s holding her up.
“Everything okay with—” I stop short at the sight of her.
She’s staring down at her laptop with a devastated expression. Absolutely gutted at whatever she’s looking at. Instinctively, I know that whatever this is, it’s about to change the course of our night.
“You okay?” I ask, cautiously walking toward her.
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t seem to be breathing as much as she should be. When I get to her side, I lay my hand across her lower back and glance over her shoulder to what she’s reading. It’s an email. It’s . . .
Oh shit. It’s an email from Colette Menton. And from the looks of it, it’s not a good one.
I scan the email quickly, reading it and then rereading it because I almost can’t believe what she’s saying. In one short email she has completely dashed Emily’s hopes for this book. I’ve read a lot of blunt and honest feedback about my stories, but this . . . this is tough. She doesn’t pull any punches and finds things with the story that, in my opinion, are too critical.
I disagree with her on nearly all fronts.
The email starts nice enough, saying she has to pass on the project because, sadly, it didn’t speak to her like she hoped. I wish she’d stopped there. She goes on to say that because Emily is a good friend of such a successful writer as AJ Ranger, she will give her some feedback that might help her in future submission. (Super. So glad she brought me into this.) Colette matter-of-factly lists each potential issue with the story. She states that the characters lack any depth. The romance, she claims, is flat and dry as burned toast. The sentence structures are amateurish. The concept, apparently, is a winner, but the overall story needs more work than Colette is ready to sign on for at this time. She wishes Emily luck, but suggests she pause and learn more about character development before proceeding with more submissions. Asshole.