The Rom Con(61)
The rough growl of his voice makes my toes curl. “That’s probably a good thing,” I manage—and right then, mercifully, the alarm stops bleating.
He grins down at me, and just as I’m registering that we’re still hugging, our bodies locked together like magnets, the song changes and Otis Redding’s bluesy baritone floats through the kitchen.
These arms of mine, they are lonely . . .
Jack raises an eyebrow at me, and without waiting for an answer, starts swaying in time with the music. I decide to go with it, replacing my head on his chest and melting into his embrace—but not before I slide off the oven mitts and toss them to the floor, which makes him laugh, the deep, rumbling sound vibrating against my cheek.
Time stands still as we slow-dance, the angst of the last few minutes fading away as I dissolve into his chest—though I suppose if we’re splitting hairs, what we’re actually doing is closer to cuddling than dancing. If this was a movie montage, it’d be the scene engineered to tug at viewers’ heartstrings: just me and Jack, all our pretenses and posturing stripped away as we rock back and forth in charged silence, oblivious to everything but each other.
. . . They are burning from wanting you.
We sway that way for ten . . . twenty . . . thirty more seconds, before he slows and pulls away slightly, and I lift my head to look up at him.
His gaze is a scorching heat; a dark, raging fire that burns right through me. His eyes search my face, lingering on my mouth, and my throat goes bone-dry. He lifts his hands to cradle my face, tipping my chin up, and I nearly stop breathing. My pulse pounds a relentless drumbeat in my neck; he must be able to feel it.
I know what’s about to happen and I’m powerless to stop it. He lowers his head slowly, deliberately, and it’s as though he’s saying: Now’s your last chance to pull away.
Instead, I meet him halfway.
I push onto my toes and press my lips to his, and the world ignites in a shower of sparks. He makes a noise when our mouths finally connect, a low groan of satisfaction, and my entire body blazes to life. My hands scrabble at his back until I grab twin handfuls of his shirt, bunching the fabric in my fists and tethering him to me. His thumbs frame my cheekbones as he gently tilts my face and tastes me, his tongue meeting mine softly at first, then bolder, with more authority, more possession. He’s branding me, making me his. He’s going to make me forget any kiss that’s come before.
I pull him closer, fusing our lower halves, while our mouths savor what we’ve both been craving. We’re perfectly matched and equally consumed. He nibbles on my lower lip while I nip at the corner of his mouth. His hand cups the back of my neck, fingers threaded in my hair, while I run my palms over the bunching muscles of his back. He gives and takes, then gives some more, his lips spilling secrets his voice has yet to share. It’s simultaneously chaste and indecent, his touch somehow both tender and insistent. In fact, he’s kissing me with such intensity that neither of us notices I’m moving until my backside collides with the edge of the marble island, and we laugh softly into each other’s mouths.
Frankly, I’m trying to keep from moaning. I knew Jack was in shape and I certainly fantasized about what his body might feel like, but imagining isn’t the same as knowing. Everything about him is strong and solid and male, from his firm torso to his muscular biceps to his broad shoulders. I mold myself to his frame, my breasts pressed to his chest, every nerve ending alive and tingling with delicious friction. My arms find their way to his neck and I tangle my hands in the thick hair at his nape, and when I tug on it a little he lets out another grunt of pleasure. The guttural sound stirs something deep in my belly and I’m in danger of swooning.
I knew I was attracted to Jack (okay fine, more like super-horny and turned on at all times in his presence), but even I’m surprised by how powerfully my body responds to him, how desperate my hands are to know every inch of him. Prudish, well-bred Betty is a distant memory, replaced by a feral cavewoman driven by the most primal instinct there is: lust. I want to rip off this Jackie O dress and embrace my inner Marilyn. I want to serenade him with a slutty rendition of “Happy Birthday.”
Between kisses he murmurs things like “You’re so . . . ” and “Finally,” and I flash back to what he said in Times Square—“I’ve never anticipated anything quite this much”—and I know he’s right, that our delayed gratification has made this encounter infinitely more explosive, more passionate than I ever could have imagined. I made him wait, but he used his time wisely. He saw my hesitation and raised me some patience. He took my unusual demands in stride, charming and disarming me with some good old-fashioned romance. He burrowed under my skin and fought his way into my heart, shattering my defenses in the process.
He skims his knuckles down my side, his thumb just grazing my breast, and when I tremble in response I feel him hesitate. I can almost hear his thoughts: How far is too far? Will I scare her off? Should I stop? So I lean into his grip, his large hand fanned against my rib cage, and kiss him thoroughly in wordless answer. I find myself desperate to know if he has a dusting of chest hair underneath that perfectly fitted shirt, or if his torso is as smooth and velvety as glazed honey. My fingers itch to find out, and yet I somehow have the presence of mind to know that would be crossing a line, that I’d be starting something I’m unprepared to finish.
Or unable to stop.