The Rom Con(77)
I hesitate, my voice faltering, and I nearly lose my nerve, but I’m determined to get this out. I owe him at least that much.
I swallow and meet his gaze, clear-eyed. “I would never have fallen in love with you.”
Chapter 16
I watch him absorb my declaration, a medley of emotions reflected in his eyes: surprise, relief, wonder, then hesitation. Or maybe it’s doubt. Maybe he doesn’t believe me.
This time, I do reach out and touch him. I step forward and take his hand, lacing my fingers through his. I need to lay it all out there for him.
“I tried so hard not to love you, but you swept me off my feet anyway, with your silly board games and your cheesy pickup lines and your chivalry. With your patience and your generosity and your good heart.” I smile at him, feeling my soul rattling around in my chest. It’s both terrifying and exhilarating to make myself this vulnerable. “It’s kind of funny when you think about it, isn’t it? I gave myself three dates to bring you down, but I’m the one who fell.” I laugh wryly. “Pretty damn inconvenient of you to be the man I’ve been searching for my whole life.”
His eyes flare, and I raise our joined hands and place his palm on my chest, letting him feel my racing heartbeat. “I’ve been just as scared of loving you as I’ve been of losing you, but I realize now that I’ve never been in control of either one. I can stand here and tell you I love you and you could still walk away, and I’d have to accept that.” I curl my fingers around his and squeeze. “But I hope I won’t have to.”
His silence is excruciating. He’s staring at me, his eyes full of emotion, but I’m not a mind reader. Is anything I’m saying affecting him? He can’t possibly think I’d lie about this, can he?
“Say something,” I implore him. “Please, I don’t care what it is. Yell at me, curse at me, tell me you hate me, I’ll sit here and take it if—”
My words cut off when he steps forward, taking my face in his hands and crashing his lips against mine. The force of it backs me up several steps, my spine hitting the wall behind me, but the discomfort barely registers because I’m so overwhelmed with emotion, so overcome with relief and hope and hunger for him. I cling to him, kissing him back passionately, thoroughly, roughly, desperate to show him how much I love him—but this time as me, with no secrecy or deceit standing in our way.
It’s like all our restraint, all the lust we’ve kept banked is unleashed in a torrent, the dam broken, his mouth claiming mine as his hands slide possessively over my skin, moving anywhere and everywhere, like he doesn’t know where to start. I fist my hands in his shirt, wishing I could get my paws on the bare skin of his torso, but he’s so tightly bound up in his suit and tie that I can’t defile him the way I want to. I want to rip his shirt open at the placket and send buttons flying. I want to savagely muss his hair until it looks like it’s never seen a brush. I want to shuck off his pants and see if what’s underneath is as impressive up close as it feels pressed against my stomach. I want to climb his body like it’s my own personal jungle gym.
I whimper into his mouth. All of my long-suppressed sexual energy needs an outlet, and the clock has timed out on my patience. My body is locked between him and this wall and it is not working for me. I need to be let loose, wild and untethered, free to ravage him the way I’ve longed to for months.
I think he must crack my unspoken code because one minute I’m nibbling his neck and panting into his ear and the next we’re in a hotel room, like it’s Bewitched and all I have to do is wiggle my nose to magically teleport myself to another location. (Realistically, it likely had more to do with my impatient hands fumbling at his belt buckle and his desire to keep us from being arrested for lewd and lascivious conduct, but, you know, details.)
My arms are wrapped around his midsection from behind, my cheek pressed between his shoulder blades as he keys us into the room. I let go of him so he can shrug off his jacket, then head to the window, pushing aside the heavy drapes so I can take in the view. There’s nothing quite like the city at night: bright and dazzling, with glittering lights as far as the eye can see. “Wow,” I murmur.
“My thoughts exactly.”
I turn and catch his eye, flushing slightly when I realize he’s been watching me. I set my purse down on the desk in the corner and pat at my hair, my artfully undone updo now just undone, with pieces pulled loose from their bobby pins, a casualty of our frantic urgency and his greedy hands. I’m feeling shy all of a sudden, self-conscious . . . or perhaps it’s more like unprepared. Normally I’d plan a night like this down to the tiniest detail, preselecting the perfect aphrodisiacal meal, sultry background music, and lacy lingerie set designed to make him forget his own name.
As usual with Jack, though, nothing goes the way I think it will.
He smiles and holds out a hand. “C’mere.” He always seems to be able to read my mood.
When I take his hand he immediately pulls me into his arms, and I melt into him, resting my head against the shelf of his shoulder.
“Hi,” he says softly, his nose nuzzling a path along my cheekbone, and I hum in response. “What are you thinking about?” His lips tickle my earlobe, sending goosebumps straight to my toes.
“That I wish I wasn’t wearing chicken cutlets.”