It occurs to me that I asked him the wrong question before, about whether he was disappointed—or rather, that the person I should have been asking was myself. I’ve never regretted my past relationships, always believing they existed to help teach me something, but standing before him now as he reveals the depth of his commitment, the extent of his patience—proving his fidelity before I’d truly earned it—I wish I could wipe my slate clean. I wish I had waited for him, that I had seen him in my future, that I could have given him that gift. It’s yet another epiphany for me in all this, and a testament to how profoundly I’ve changed: that once you find your last, you’ll wish they were your only.
His expression turns mischievous, his mouth curving into a deviant smirk. “But if you really want to know the ‘type’ of girl I go for . . .” He tugs me to him by the hips, and I can feel his desire pressing strong and solid against my stomach. “She’s about five foot six. Hazel eyes. The softest skin I’ve ever felt.” His hands skim up my arms, featherlight, and I shiver. “Hair that leans brown or red depending on the time of day.” He pulls one of my bobby pins loose and my hair starts to unravel from its messy knot. He makes a low grunt of approval and removes a few more, the rest of my hair cascading down and brushing my bare shoulders.
“She’s crazy smart. Passionate.” His fingers whisper across my collarbone, sensitizing my skin, and I try not to tremble. “Gorgeous.” In a blink, his mouth replaces his fingers and he’s pressing light, fluttering kisses along my décolletage, a slow and tortuous trail, and when his teeth nip at the hollow of my throat, a groan slips out. I let my head loll to the side to give him better access, and I can feel his smile against my skin as he winds a curving, leisurely path up my neck.
“Mouthy,” he murmurs, then captures my lips, kissing me long and slow, our tongues tangling and hands grasping until we’re nothing but heated skin and panting breaths and pounding hearts. Adrenaline courses through my veins; throbs at my pulse points. He slips a hand beneath the hem of my dress and starts teasing his way up my thigh, stroking and squeezing, torturing me with agonizing slowness. It feels like years pass before he reaches the thin silk at the apex of my thighs, and when he runs a finger along my wetness, I nearly disintegrate in his arms.
“Jack,” I moan into his ear, and it’s a plea; a warning. I’m swaying on my feet, clinging to him for dear life. Aching with want. Hearing his name must rob him of his restraint because he mutters an oath, roughly pushes my panties aside and sinks a finger in to the knuckle.
I groan his name again and arch my back, shuddering, surging, bucking as my hips seek further connection to his hand. I’m a bundle of raw nerves, every sense electrified, a frenzy of unfulfilled lust desperately seeking relief. My brain’s emptied of all rational thought and there is only Jack’s touch; Jack’s heat. His finger swirls around, strong and unrelenting, and I dissolve into him, a writhing heap of nerve endings and sensations. It’s so intense I have to choke back a sob. Has it ever felt like this? I may actually die from the pleasure.
He continues to obliterate me for an untold amount of time, his mouth swallowing down every one of my mewling cries until I’m near collapse, his strong arm wrapped around my back the only thing still keeping me upright. When he starts to withdraw slowly, devastatingly, I whimper at the loss of him, and he gives my backside a tender squeeze in consolation. He gradually slows our kiss but doesn’t pull away, his lips resting just a hair’s breadth away from mine.
I feel drugged. I’m in a Jack-trance and I never want to wake up. It takes superhuman effort to drag my eyes open, and when I do I know he’s seeing directly into my soul. Every one of my thoughts is exposed, mined from the depths and drawn to the surface, his for the taking. I may still be fully dressed, but emotionally, I’m laid bare.
“Now what are you thinking?” His voice is husky and rough; a scrape of sandpaper against stone.
Is he actually expecting me to speak right now? I can barely form a coherent thought, let alone string words together. “I’m thinking . . . take me to bed or lose me forever.”
He barks a laugh like I’m joking, but I’ve never been more serious. I want to kiss him until my lips are bruised. I want to imprint myself on his skin like invisible ink. I want to have marathon sex with him until we both need electrolytes and a Gatorade shower.
His tie is askew and his top couple of buttons undone, collateral damage from my haste to get my hands on him. He glows with health and virility, golden bronze skin peeking out from beneath his shirt, begging me to run my hands all over it. I want to ice him like a cake and lick him clean. I want to devour him whole.
I unbutton the rest of his shirt while he works to unknot his tie, the two of us grinning at each other like idiots in our race to disrobe. I’m a little giddy, but who could blame me? There’s a profound relief in knowing Jack and I are finally on the same page, that there are no more secrets between us, no more emotional barriers—and soon, no physical barriers, either. This is the outcome I’ve dreamt about, one that seemed impossibly out of reach just a few short days ago. This is our long-awaited reward, and damnit, we’ve earned it.
He tosses his tie on the desk just as I unfasten the last button, and once I peel his shirt off, I press my palms to his bare chest and sigh. “Finally.”
I’ve changed my mind; I’m no longer in a rush. The emotional roller coaster of the last hour’s leveled off, our frenzied energy eased, and now I want to take my time, explore him in painstaking detail, prolong our pleasure until we’re wrung out and shaking. I trail a finger from his shoulder down his biceps, taking a circuitous route around his triceps and deltoid. I trace a raised vein across muscular terrain. I map his torso with my fingertips, marking every freckle, every hair, every scar. I caress him with my hands, learning every inch of him, committing each detail to memory.
He starts to unbuckle his belt but I reach a hand out to stop him. “Please let me.”
My movements are not smooth or practiced. In fact, they’re clumsy and inelegant, but perhaps I’m doing it on purpose, something inside me wanting to extend our agony, drag out the suspense just a little longer. The jangling of his belt buckle provokes a Pavlovian response—my mouth simultaneously waters and goes dry, my pulse breaks into a sprint, my nipples pebble. The sound is music to my ears; it makes my blood sing. I feel him growing even harder under my fumbling hands and my stomach tightens in anticipation.
His suit pants have slipped low on his hips, and the sight of his Adonis V disappearing into his waistband is so tantalizing, I could scream. I make quick work of his zipper, yanking both his pants and briefs down in one fell swoop, finally freeing him—then stare in admiration. So good looks aren’t the only thing Jack’s been blessed with. The man’s won the genetic lottery.
I think my eyes must be big, because he chuckles. “Cat got your tongue?”
I clamp my trap shut so drool won’t spill out. “No, just the opposite—I’m congratulating myself.”
He chuckles again as he steps out of his pants and kicks them out of the way.