Chapter 6
Natalie
The next morning, I wake up tangled in my sheets, overheated, under-rested, and morally compromised by my own imagination.
It is five fifty.
I know this because the little digital clock on my nightstand is glowing the time at me like it personally disapproves of my life choices.
I slept for maybe an hour. Maybe two if we count the part where I drifted off and immediately dreamed about Jordan Richmond putting his hands on my waist again.
The rest of the night was a blur of tossing, turning, rolling onto my stomach, rolling onto my back, pressing a pillow over my face, and remembering his mouth like my brain had been assigned a very specific punishment.
I have kissed before.
Wesley kissed me plenty of times when we were together.
Sweet kisses at first, then awkward ones, then the kind that made me wonder if I was overthinking romance or if romance was overthinking me.
We touched a few times too, mostly over clothes, mostly nervous and clumsy.
I remember being curious. I remember wanting to want more.
Then Jordan kissed me, and my entire understanding of kissing packed a suitcase and left town.
There is no comparison.
Wesley was familiar. Safe. A boy I had known forever trying to become someone else.
Jordan is a man. He’s older, rougher, experienced in a way that makes every quiet order sound like a promise and every controlled touch feel like the beginning of trouble.
Very sexy trouble.
The kind of trouble that lifts a woman onto a desk and stands between her thighs like he belongs there.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but that only makes it worse. His hand on my thigh. His mouth on mine. His body hard against me. The way he guided my hand to the front of his pants and let me feel exactly what I did to him.
My face goes hot under the pillow.
I am still a virgin, but I am not so innocent that I do not understand what I felt. Wesley and I touched through clothes, and even then, he never felt like that. He never made my whole body go soft and panicky and curious in the same breath.
Jordan did.
Jordan made me feel it through a zipper.
I kick both feet under the blanket like that might shake the memory loose.
It does not.
The doorbell rings.
I shoot upright so fast my hair falls into my mouth.
At five fifty in the morning, no good news arrives by doorbell.
I stumble to the door, peek through the little hole, and find a man in a black delivery uniform holding a sleek black box.
I open the door a cautious amount. “Yes?”
“Natalie Mullen?”
“That depends on how scary the box is.”
His expression does not change. “Delivery from Mr. Richmond.”
My stomach flips hard enough to qualify as exercise.
I take the box. It is heavier than I expect, tied with black ribbon, and far too elegant for my tiny apartment and bare feet. The delivery man leaves before I can ask questions, which is probably for the best because all my questions sound like screaming.
Inside is a dress.
Black, soft, and really beautiful.
The kind of beautiful that makes me stand there for a second with the box open, my messy hair hanging around my face, wondering if Jordan somehow knew I would spend the entire day panicking over what to wear tonight.
Which is ridiculous, because men like Jordan Richmond probably do not think about wardrobe panic.
Except he sent a dress.
I lift it out with careful fingers, and the fabric slides over my hands like water. There are shoes tucked beneath it, wrapped in tissue, and a small card with Jordan’s initials embossed at the top.
Wear this tonight.
I won’t be in the office today. Meetings off-site.
J.R.
My chest does something stupid.
I should be relieved. After yesterday, a day without Jordan Richmond sitting behind the office door six feet from my desk should feel like mercy. A responsible woman would be grateful for space.
I am disappointed.
Deeply, embarrassingly disappointed.
I go to work anyway, because adulthood is rude like that. His office stays empty all day, which somehow makes him more present. I answer emails, update meeting notes, and check his closed door more times than a sane woman should check an empty room.
By six that evening, I am home again, standing in front of my mirror in the dress he sent.
It fits.
That is the problem.
It fits like someone knew exactly where I was soft and decided to make me stop apologizing for it. The neckline is elegant, the waist gentle, the skirt skimming my hips in a way that makes me feel less like I am taking up too much space and more like maybe the space was meant for me.
The doorbell rings at six thirty.
I open it.
Jordan stands in my hallway in a dark suit, one hand in his pocket, green-silver eyes moving over me with such slow heat that I forget every single greeting ever invented.
His gaze travels from my hair to the dress to the shoes and back to my face.
“Good.”
One word.
My knees, traitors that they are, accept it as poetry.
“Hello to you too,” I say.
His mouth softens for half a second. “Turn around.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“Your clasp.”
Oh.
The dress has a tiny clasp at the back of my neck that I wrestled with for four minutes before deciding my hair would hide my failure. I turn, and Jordan steps into my apartment far enough to close the door behind him.
The quiet changes immediately.
His fingers brush my hair aside. Warm knuckles skim the back of my neck, and I go still.
“Breathe,” he says.
“I did that all day without supervision.”
“You’re not doing it very well now.”
“That is your fault.”
“Yes.”
The clasp slides into place. He does not move away right away. His fingers rest at the nape of my neck, barely touching, and my whole body leans toward the contact before I can stop it.
His voice lowers. “Better.”
I turn around slowly. “Is everything a lesson with you?”
“With you?” His eyes drop to my mouth. “Lately, yes.”
Dinner is at a small restaurant tucked against the ridge, with tall windows, polished wood, and enough soft lighting to make every table look like a secret. Jordan’s hand settles at my lower back as we walk in, and this time I remember his first lesson.
I lean into him.
His fingers flex once.
A tiny victory bursts in my chest.
The hostess leads us to a booth near the windows. I start to slide in across from him, but Jordan’s hand closes gently around mine.
“Beside me.”
My pulse gives up immediately. “Is that a request?”
“Yes.”
I slide into the booth, and he sits close enough that his thigh brushes mine. The restaurant is busy around us, but the booth is private, and Jordan’s presence makes the rest of the room feel far away.
The server appears with a smile that brightens when she sees him.
I cannot blame her.
I still dislike it.
Jordan orders steak for himself, then looks at me. “She’ll have the grilled trout with lemon butter on the side. No cilantro anywhere on the plate. She’s allergic. I’ll have a steak with roasted potatoes.”
My head turns so fast I nearly hurt myself. “How do you know about my allergy?”
His gaze stays on mine. “Employee medical form.”
“That is reasonable.”
“And you love trout but always check it before you take a bite.”
My stomach flutters. “That is less reasonable.”
“I notice you.”
There goes breathing again.
The server leaves, and Jordan’s hand settles over mine beneath the table. His thumb slides over my knuckles once, slow enough to make my toes curl in the very nice shoes he sent.
His hand shifts from mine to my knee.
My whole body locks.
His eyes narrow. “There.”
“I am in public.”
“You’ll be in public this weekend.”
“This weekend, I will have the emotional support of cake.”
“You’ll have me.”
The words are too quiet and too steady to be flirtation. They land somewhere deeper.
Then his thumb moves over my knee, and it becomes dangerous.
I grip my menu. “Jordan.”
“That’s better.”
“What is better?”
“You said my name instead of pulling away.”
“I am holding a menu hard enough to injure it.”
“You are still here.”
His hand moves an inch higher.
My brain becomes a white, sparkly void.
The booth hides us from most of the restaurant, but not enough for my nerves to understand privacy. I grab his wrist under the table.
He stops instantly.
“Should I stop?” he asks.
The question is serious, and that seriousness makes something warm unfold inside me.
I shake my head.
His jaw flexes. “Words, Natalie.”
“No.”
His fingers tighten once, then relax. “Good girl.”
I almost slide under the table.
His hand stays on my thigh while the server brings wine and water. I smile like a normal person. I may deserve an award.
When we are alone again, Jordan leans closer. “This weekend, when I touch you in front of them, remember this.”
“This restaurant?”
“My hand on your thigh. Your pulse racing. The fact that you didn’t tell me to stop.”
My breath catches.
His thumb strokes once beneath the hem of my dress, higher than before, where my skin is softer and much less prepared for public lessons.
“Jordan.”
His eyes darken. “There she is.”
“Who?”
“The woman who wants more and is afraid to ask for it.”
I should deny it. I should say something funny. I should remind him this is practice. Pretending.
Is it pretending?
Instead, I whisper, “Maybe she doesn’t know how.”
For one second, his hand goes still.
Then his mouth comes close to my ear, and his voice turns rough enough to make me shiver.
“She’ll learn.”
The server arrives with dinner, and Jordan’s hand returns to my knee as if nothing happened. As if I am not sitting in a restaurant wearing the dress he chose, eating the food he ordered, and trying to survive the knowledge that he knows exactly how to make me fall apart without anyone noticing.
I take one bite of trout. It is tender, buttery, perfect, and cilantro-free.
Jordan watches me swallow.
“Good?”
“Yes.”
His thumb moves over my knee. “Say it again.”
My cheeks heat. “The fish is good.”
His gaze drops to my mouth. “I meant my name.”
My pulse stumbles.
The man is going to end me before the wedding.
After dinner, the server returns with the dessert menu. I am still pretending to read it when Jordan takes it from my hand, sets it aside, and orders the strawberry tart with two forks.
The tart arrives between us like a dare.
“You heard me that day,” I say.
“Yes.”
A smile slips out before I can stop it.
He reaches over and brushes his thumb near the corner of my mouth, though I am almost sure there is nothing there.
“Wear that smile this weekend.”
The heat in me softens into something much more dangerous.
“Jordan,” I whisper.
His eyes drop to my mouth.
“Finish your dessert, Natalie.”
“Why?”
His hand returns to my thigh under the table, higher this time, firm and possessive.
“Because when I get you alone, lesson two starts.”