Chapter Twenty-Five Emily
Chapter Twenty-Five
Emily
I’ve been here before—standing just inside my house with Jack—but this time is different. This time, it’s real. Or maybe it was real then too…but this time, it means something.
When Jack told me at the bar who he is, my first emotion was not anger or hurt. Not even betrayal or fear. It was awe. I’m in awe of Jack, and not at all surprised to learn he is one of the most incredible mystery writers of our generation. My immediate thought was: Of course he is. But not in a negative way. I’ve seen how he lights up when he talks about writing, and it feels like a gift-wrapped present to understand where that light comes from now. The only part of all this that makes me sad is that no one else will ever know it’s him who has written all of those incredible novels. All because of his asshat father.
But he told me. He trusted me. I’ll never take that for granted.
Now I close my front door and lock it behind me as we step inside. It’s always a little weird to feel full steam ahead in one location and then get in separate vehicles and try to reignite that flame in a different one. It’s given my nerves too much time to set in. What if I can’t get back into it? What if this ends up like every other encounter I’ve had?
“Nice place,” Jack says, pretending to look around like he’s never been here. He spots Ducky asleep on her mushroom bed and points. “Cute cat.”
I laugh, anticipation swirling in my stomach. If this were anyone else, I would attempt to crush my anxiety by faking confidence. I’d make the first move. I’d rush it and get it over with. But this is Jack…and I’m learning nothing is the same with him. Including my approach to sex.
When he notices I haven’t moved from the door, he eyes me and tilts his head—a calculating smile slanting his mouth. I’ve never been so thankful to be read in all my life. I don’t have to voice my worries. He’s tracking them line by line.
He walks over to me, so close I have to angle my face up. I get a kiss on my forehead and then he bends and scoops me up in his arms. “Excuse me, but…I need you to come with me,” he says, carrying me back to my room while I’m quietly laughing into his shoulder.
Inside the bedroom, he kicks the door shut with his foot and then swiftly sets me on my feet. When I’m standing, he lifts the bottom hem of my tank top and peels it off my body. I’m wearing a fantastic bra that accentuates my cleavage perfectly, and no sooner than Jack looks, his head tips back on a groan like I am the most fantastic thing he’s ever seen.
“God, you’re gorgeous.” His eyes scan me again and then his body melts toward me. “I know I said I’d peel these clothes off you slowly, but it was a necessity for that piece of fabric to be gone immediately.”
“Good. I feel like you’ve been peeling clothing off me slowly for weeks,” I say, to which he grins proudly.
His hands slide softly onto my waist. My body flames at the first touch of his skin against mine. “I have wanted this for so long,” he says, walking us to my bed, where he sits down on the edge and then hooks an arm around my abdomen and pulls me down into his lap. My back to his chest.
His warm mouth explores the side of my neck, and before we get too far, I feel compelled to remind him of one thing. “Jack…remember it might…it might take me awhile.”
I feel his smile as his hands slide around my rib cage and up to circle both of my breasts. He hums softly next to my ear. “That’ll be fun.”
And with those words, the anxiety that always grips me in the bedroom recedes enough to let me focus on the feel of his body against mine. Of the soft scratch of fabric against my back. Of his breath and mouth working over the skin of my neck and shoulders as his hands pay reverent tribute to my chest.
Slowly, his right hand extends out over my knee and then gently, torturously, glides up the inside of my thigh. My shorts are still on, but his hand dips into the leg and inches to my hip bone until he encounters the hem of my underwear. His hand flips palm up so he can hook his fingers under the fabric. But then he pauses.
“This would be a good time for me to clarify that you want this and it’s okay?”
I nod almost frantically, making him chuckle. “Yes. I want this. Keep going.”
“Hm,” he says as his knuckles move down my skin at a creeping pace. Only a half inch. “I might…” He kisses the side of my jaw. Licks my earlobe. “But earlier tonight a woman reminded me of a very persuasive word.”
His hand, still on my left breast, travels across my sternum and right down into the opposite cup of my bra. I gasp and my head drops back against his shoulder. Jack knows how to multitask because his knuckles under my shorts are still moving down, down, down, but so damn slowly. I’m dizzy with sensation. And all I can think is that Jack Bennett’s hands are all over me right now. An electric thrill chases that thought up my spine.
“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.