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.
It’s too much. It’s sensory overload. The heat of his skin, the weight of his arms caging me against the counter, the sandpaper scrape of his jaw, the rich flavor of malted whiskey on his breath, this sultry, soulful bump-and-grind playlist—it’s all building toward something that will almost certainly lead to my destruction. I’m flying too close to the sun.
I should put a stop to this. I should pull away before it goes any further. And yet, in this moment I’d rather die than stop. I want to stay right here in his arms, treasuring his kisses and reveling in the feel of him and believing for just one night that this could be right. That Jack could be the man I’ve been searching for all this time.
Right now, he’s the only thing I want.
So I close my eyes, press into him, and hurtle myself toward the sun.
Chapter 13
I can’t stop thinking about #98 on the “Tips to Hook a Husband” list: Turn wolves into husband material by assuming they have honor.
I thought about it as I left Jack’s apartment last night, the promise of another date hanging in the air between us like a strand of twinkling Christmas lights. I thought about it as I tossed and turned in bed, giddy and restless and horny as hell. And I’m thinking about it now as I reluctantly head to Cynthia’s office, feet heavy as cement blocks, a prisoner on her way to the guillotine.
I have no idea how she’ll take the news that I’m dropping the story. She’d be well within her rights to fire me, and honestly, I’m not sure I could blame her. I’ve been working on this for weeks and not only do I have nothing to show for it, but now I’ve found myself in bed with the enemy （metaphorically, at least）。 I’m irrevocably compromised, both professionally and ethically. I’m sure I’ve exposed Siren to some sort of liability, too. I know lying itself isn’t a crime, but should Jack find out about my ulterior motives he’d probably have grounds to sue Cynthia for invasion of privacy or emotional distress or defamation. （Or is it slander? I can never remember the difference. Cut me some slack, I’m not a lawyer.）
One thing I know for sure, though: My subterfuge ends today. If I’m going to move forward with Jack in good conscience, then this story needs to be a distant speck in my rearview mirror.
I knock once and enter when she invites me in, the chatter of the newsroom fading ominously as the door snicks shut behind me. In a blatant attempt at buying her mercy, I picked up a cup of her favorite overpriced coffee and a chocolate croissant from the fancy French bakery next door, though the bribery is about as transparent as these damn acrylic chairs. My thighs are already clammy at the sight of them.
“Hey there,” Cynthia says, holding up a finger as she continues to type feverishly. I take a seat at her desk, and when she finally pushes her keyboard away, she makes a little chirp of appreciation at my sweet treats. So far so good.
“So a vague, last-minute meeting request,” she says, pulling the croissant from the bag and tearing off a corner. “Do I take it there’s been a break in the case?”
“Sort of.” I rethink that. “Well, not exactly.” I roll my lips together. “Actually, sort of the opposite?”
“What does that mean?” she asks around her mouthful. “Don’t tell me he figured it out?”
“No, nothing like that.” I gnaw on my lip, stalling.
Her brow furrows as she waits a beat. “Well? Spit it out. What’s going on?”
I take a deep breath. “I need to call it off.”
She leans back in her chair, index fingers tented, chewing silently. This thousand-yard stare is one of her superpowers—I’ve watched her win countless face-offs just by staying quiet the longest. “Why?”