8. Jett
EIGHT
JETT
The first thing I register before my eyes open is the heat.
It’s not the ambient warmth of a hotel duvet with the air conditioner pumping to keep you cocooned in bed.
Nope, this is more along the lines of a furnace pressing against every single inch of the front of my body.
My face is buried in something solid and warm that smells like cedar and bergamot.
I have my left leg hooked lazily over a thick muscular thigh and my hand lying firmly against a broad, bare chest that’s rising and falling in a slow rhythm.
The pillow I strategically placed as a structural buffer zone down the middle of the bed is long gone, and in its place is Rowdy Bouchard.
My mind scrambles, attempting to piece together that late-night timeline as my eyes flutter open against the dim morning light filtering through the crack of the closed curtains.
After my shower, Rowdy ordered Italian from our group favorite, and I had full intentions of paying for my half, but the second the food arrived, Rowdy told me absolutely not.
In fact, he grunted, “I’m paying, Jett. End of discussion.
” I rolled my eyes, because I was too tired to argue and conceded.
We sat on the couch, hunched over our meal of choice, eating, talking, and laughing well past midnight.
Rowdy, though, flirted relentlessly. His dark eyes never left mine, and his lingering touches had my pulse racing. The conversation was easy, fluid, and I almost forgot that this could derail my entire career if I toed over the line.
Oh, fuck. I’m cuddling my client.
The realization hits me like a bucket of ice water. I hold my breath as I slowly try to inch my leg away from his thigh without waking the giant sleeping next to me. I carefully try to disentangle my arm from his chest, easing my palm along the way, and that’s when Rowdy stirs.
Before I can complete my retreat, his thick, heavy arm shoots out, wrapping tightly around my waist like an iron band.
With one effortless tug, he pulls me backward, rolling me over to my side, then my back is flush against his chest. I gasp softly as he tucks himself against me.
I can feel him, all of him, through the thin cotton pajama shorts.
The unmistakable, rock-hard length of his dick is nestled right between the cheeks of my ass. He’s thick, long, and throbbing.
“Where do you think you’re going, sunshine?” He scrapes his chin along my neck. The slight abrasion of his roughened beard causes goose bumps to rise along my skin. Add in his voice still thick with sleep and, well, all I can do is attempt to suppress the shiver being sent down my spine.
“Rowdy, we need to…” The words die in my throat when his large, calloused hand slips beneath the hem of my black tank.
The heat of his palm against my bare skin is electric, making my stomach contract instantly.
Rowdy doesn’t pause, one hand travels upward, gliding over my ribs, his fingers spreading wide, nearly cupping the heavy curve of my breast. At the same time, his other hand dips below the elastic waistband of my shorts, and his fingers slide along my skin with an agonizing slowness.
I stay completely still, even when my mind screams at me to pull away, to enforce the boundary I set, to not mix business with pleasure. Except my body refuses to obey. No, the traitorous hussy is begging for a release I wasn’t able to achieve in the shower last night.
God, how I tried.
After Rowdy fell asleep, I slipped back into the bathroom, trying to quiet the ache pulsing between my thighs that he’d planted in me before, during, and after dinner.
But my own touch felt hollow, inadequate compared to the overwhelming presence of the man who’s currently holding me captive in his arms. There’s also the fact that staying quiet was nearly impossible.
I’m sure I was a sight to behold, forearm on the counter, bent at the waist, mouth full of my towel while my fingers worked at a furious pace inside my shorts.
Rowdy lets out a low, satisfied grunt against my neck.
His finger circles my hardened nipple, sending a jolt of electricity straight to my core.
Below my waist, his other hand presses deeper, the tips of his finger brushing over the smooth skin before tugging on my landing strip.
Jesus, if he goes any further, he’ll realize just how hot I am for him.
My thighs part on instinct, my head falls back against him, and my eyes close as I surrender to his touch. I’m ready to let him go as far as he wants.
I want his hands.
I want his mouth.
I want his cock.
I want every single inch of Rowdy Bouchard to wreck me right here beneath the sheets covering us. His fingers move lower, reaching my slick folds, one thick digit dipping—
Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!
The harsh shrill of Rowdy’s phone alarm blares to life on the nightstand behind him.
The sound shatters the quietness of the room like a brick being thrown through a window.
The noise makes Rowdy flinch, and his hand slips away from my breast as he groans out an angry, violent curse, reaching to slam his palm down on the screen to kill the noise.
I whimper, the sound tearing from my throat before I can stop it.
A needy, desperate, pathetic moan at the sudden loss of his touch.
Rowdy freezes.
His breathing turns rugged. My head tilts to the side. He’s looking down at me, his eyes ablaze with a sudden, scorching intensity that burns through me. The alarm is gone, but in its place is an air that’s thicker than ever.
“Christ, sunshine,” he rasps, his voice low, rough, and completely stripped of control.
He doesn’t pull away, he doesn’t get out of bed.
“Fuck it,” he growls, and before I can draw another breath, Rowdy hooks his leg over mine, shifting my hips while shoving his hand further beneath my waistband.
He doesn’t waste a single second with soft touches or promises.
He presses his broad palm against my mound, his long, thick fingers slide between the lips of my pussy, and two thick fingers dive straight inside me.
“Rowdy…” A breathless gasp is ripped from my lungs as he works his fingers into my wet heat.
“Take it, Jett,” he demands into my ear, his hips pressing his hard dick against my ass while his fingers begin a fast, merciless in-and-out motion.
“You want this, I want this, and I’m going to be the one to make you come all over my hand.
” He flexes his wrist. His thumb curls to press firmly against my swollen clit while his fingers work me up.
Jesus, the man knows exactly the right spot when he makes that come-hither motion that makes my whole body go taut.
It’s too much yet not enough.
The contrast between his speed and the desperate ache I’ve been carrying all night brings me straight to the edge entirely too fast.
“Rowdy, please,” I sob. My hands reach to grip his forearm, my knuckles turning white as I cling to him.
“Look how wet you are for me,” he growls against my ear.
His strokes turn faster, deeper with preciseness.
“I can feel you dripping. What I wouldn’t give to have my head buried between your thighs right about now.
” His thumb circles my clit, his fingers working hot and heavy as the noise from our breathing and how he’s working my body echoes in the room.
My body arches and my thighs tremble. The build-up is fast, hot, and completely out of my control.
“Rowdy!” His name comes out in loud cry.
“Come for me, Jett,” he orders. His lips are pressed against my skin, his teeth nipping when he says, “Do it.”
I shatter, when a blinding orgasm is ripped through my lower body, the walls of my pussy clamping tightly around his fingers.
A loud, helpless moan is torn from me as pleasure crashes over me.
I can’t breathe, I can’t think, I can’t do anything except ride out the wave of desire.
Through it all, my hips rock and Rowdy keeps his fingers buried deep inside me, pressing me, and when he lets out a groan of his own, I feel more than I see.
“Sunshine,” he utters. His cock pulses at my ass, and wetness seeps through the back of my shorts.
I wiggle, pushing him more. I did that. I made Rowdy Bouchard come in his sleep shorts while finger-fucking me.
And when his body relaxes, holding me close, his chest heaving against my back, I know this is far from over.
“Good morning, sunshine.” He slips his wet fingers out of me and rests his palm on my hip as I lie here. I swear I’m on the verge of tears from sensory overload. He presses a soft kiss to the warm skin behind my ear, his breath doing nothing to calm the raging inferno inside me.
“Morning, Rowdy.” He’s completely destroyed me in the best way possible. And now I’m torn about what to do next: do I roll over, climb on top of him, and beg for more, or do I erect my professional walls again?
“Quit overthinking. This is happening, whether you like it or not,” he answers my internal struggle. The only problem I have now is, what will happen when Mitch finds out?