Chapter 6 Pressure Points #4
I feel her thumb brush against my knuckles, grounding. "We probably shouldn't assume this was the last little surprise."
I look down at her. The heat from the table is still there—coiled, restless—but now it's threaded with something sharper. Awareness. Stakes.
She shifts, the sheet clutched tight at her chest, suddenly very aware she can't just stroll out the door the way I can.
Her eyes lift to mine. There's a flicker of humor there, thin but real. "Next time we do something that looks scandalous, I'd prefer to at least earn it."
My mouth curves despite myself. "Duly noted."
She exhales, then tightens her grip on my hand and tugs—just once. Not toward the door. Toward her.
"Now, turn around again, while I change," she says lightly.
Lightly.
I step closer, lowering my voice. "Careful," I murmur. "You're giving me ideas again."
Her smile turns dangerous. She hits my arm.
“Water. So much water. Anya wasn’t kidding.”
Jane pushes the door to our casita open and heads straight for the kitchen. She grabs a bottle from the fridge, twists it open, and drinks half of it in one go. She leans against the counter, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
“So. Dinner. Shall we order room service? I don’t feel like dodging more of Scarlett’s poison darts.”
Her voice is light, trying for casual, but I see the tension creeping back into her shoulders. The “honeypot” mission is reasserting itself.
I stop in front of her, close enough to see the flecks of gold in her whisky-brown eyes, close enough to smell the coconut on her skin.
Jane turns fully toward me. Her eyes are wide now, uncertain in a way that has nothing to do with strategy. Her lips part, like she’s about to say something and can’t quite decide what it is.
The room feels smaller.
Quieter.
“Jane,” I whisper, my thumb tracing the curve of her jaw. Her breath shudders out. She leans into the touch, just slightly. She looks like she did yesterday when she straddled me—caught between panic and a reckless kind of courage.
This isn’t just attraction anymore. It’s pressure.
A slow, gathering force.
This is a tsunami.
I’m hearing sirens and warnings in my head. Abort. Retreat. Maintain the zone. This is dangerous territory. Uncharted. She’s inexperienced. This is her first time. It’s complicated. We have a job to do.
But the man beneath… who hasn’t touched or been touched in three years except by her…
that man is done retreating. Done with control.
The sound of her pleasure in that massage room, the memory of her body moving against mine yesterday, the sheer, terrifying realness of her… it’s a siren song I can’t ignore.
I crash into her. My mouth finds hers. Desperate. Claiming.
She makes a startled sound against my lips, then melts.
Her arms fly up around my neck, fingers tangling in my hair, pulling me closer.
Her body presses flush against mine, soft curves against hard muscle, the residual oil on her skin making everything slide, everything feel impossibly slick and hot.
The kiss is fire. It’s need. It’s the release of tension wound tighter than a slapshot. Her mouth opens under mine, inviting, and I plunge my tongue inside, tasting her—coconut, salt, cucumber water, and pure, unadulterated Jane.
She moans, the sound vibrating against my lips, echoing the sounds from the spa but a thousand times more potent because now I’m the one causing them.
My hands are everywhere. Roaming her back, sliding under the hem of her sundress, tracing the warm, smooth skin of her waist. She arches into me, her hips grinding against mine, seeking friction. The hard ridge of my erection presses against her stomach, and she gasps, breaking the kiss.
“West…” Her voice is ragged. Her eyes are dark, dilated, swimming with desire and a hint of panic. “We… the deal… this is…”
“Screw the deal,” I growl, capturing her mouth again.
My hands slide down, gripping her ass, lifting her effortlessly.
Her legs wrap around my waist instinctively.
Then I set her down on the cool marble countertop.
It puts us at eye level. Her legs are still locked around me, holding me captive between her thighs.
I look down at her. At the pulse fluttering wildly in her throat. At the way her gaze drops to my mouth and then snaps back up, dark with confusion and want. Then I remember she’s a virgin.
“Tell me to stop,” I say, my voice gravel. “Tell me this is a bad idea. Tell me you want to stick to the plan.”
She doesn’t. She just stares up at me, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Her tongue darts out, wetting her lower lip.
That’s all the invitation I need.
I kiss her again. Not like yesterday’s lesson, or controlled exploration. My mouth crashes down on hers, swallowing her gasp. My other hand fists in the fabric of her dress at her hip, pulling her flush against me.
She melts into me instantly, her hands flying up to grip my shoulders, her mouth opening under mine with a soft, yielding sigh. It’s surrender. It’s acceptance. It’s trust, and it undoes me completely.
My control, already frayed to breaking, snaps.
“I’m done pretending I don’t want this. Want you.” My hands already pushing the straps of her sundress off her shoulders.
She’s trembling, but she doesn’t look away. Her eyes are huge, dark pools reflecting the hunger I know is blazing in my own.
I pull my shirt over my head in one swift motion, tossing it aside. Her gaze rakes over my chest, my shoulders, the old scars and newer bruises marking my skin from a lifetime on the ice. There’s no fear in her eyes. Only heat. And curiosity.
My hands slide up her thighs and find the damp lace at the apex of her thighs. She jolts, breath catching, and her hips lift instinctively. I hook my thumbs into the delicate fabric and ease it down her legs, slow enough to feel every shiver she can’t hide.
“Wait, Jane, wait. I don’t have protection. It’s been so long. I didn’t even think…”
I curse but it’s the responsible thing to do. I force myself to step back, putting precious inches between us. My body screams in protest. The cool air on my overheated skin feels like a betrayal.
“Room service? Maybe they…” I think out loud.
Jane slides off the counter. Her legs wobble slightly, but she steadies herself. A strange, almost mischievous look crosses her face. “Wait here.”
She darts out of the kitchen, disappearing down the hallway toward the bedroom.
I lean against the counter, breathing hard, trying to wrestle my body back under control. It feels like trying to cap a geyser. Every nerve ending is still screaming for her. The taste of her is still on my lips. The feel of her body pressed against mine is imprinted on my skin.
This is insanity. We have a mission to save Natalie from Blake. Scarlett is probably sharpening her knives.
And I’m about to blow three years of disciplined celibacy because Jane Cooper sighs like a goddess during a massage.
She reappears in the doorway. Her cheeks are flushed. She’s holding something behind her back. She walks toward me slowly, biting her lip.
“Okay,” she says, stopping in front of me. “Don’t laugh. AND don’t judge me.”
“Jane, I’m about two seconds from tearing this place apart looking for a—”
She holds out her hand. In her palm is a familiar, brightly colored box. A very large box.
The kind you buy when optimism meets preparation.
It’s emblazoned with the logo of a certain Roman soldier—
right next to a bulk retailer logo.
“Costco?” I stare at it. Then at her. “You brought a forty-pack Trojan Variety Pack condoms from Costco?”
She shrugs, trying for nonchalance and failing miserably. The blush spreads down her neck.
“I don’t know. This isn’t for the job… but I thought maybe meet someone on the island… live and lust a little. A girl likes to be prepared.”
“Also they were on sale: three dollars off twenty!”
I stare at the box. The sheer, glorious absurdity of it. The practicality. The chaotic, beautiful, utterly Jane logic.
A laugh bubbles up from deep inside me, breaking through the tension, the frustration, the desperate need. It’s loud, unrestrained, echoing in the high-ceilinged kitchen.
Jane’s eyes widen. “Are you laughing at my bulk condoms?”
“Jane Cooper,” I say, shaking my head, the laughter still bubbling under my words. “You are…”
I can’t even find the words. Magnificent? Terrifying? Perfect?
She flushes deeper. “It’s just practical. Don’t make it weird.”
“Too late.” I close the distance between us in one step. I take the box from her hand and toss it onto the counter.
Then I cup her face in my hands. “It’s already weird. And perfect. And… you’re stoking my pro-athlete sense of competitiveness. Forty in the next five days… that’s… ambitious,” I tease, my thumb strokes her cheekbone.
“Are you really sure?”
Her eyes search mine. There’s no trace of the wooden board now. Only heat, and trust, and a flicker of nervous excitement.
“Yes,” she breathes. “But… go slow?”
The raw vulnerability in her voice, the trust implicit in that request, hits me square in the chest. It’s a responsibility I don’t take lightly. “Slow,” I promise, my voice thick. “Tell me if anything hurts. Tell me to stop. Any time. Okay?”
She nods, her gaze locked on mine. “Okay.”
I kiss her again, softer this time. Reassuring. I remove her dress gently. My hands slide down her back, finding the clasp bra between her shoulder blades. It gives way easily. The flimsy fabric falls. And there she is. Completely bare to me.
My breath stops. She’s beautiful and perfect.
Real. Soft curves, pale skin dusted with faint freckles across her shoulders, breasts full and heavy, tipped with dusky pink nipples already pebbled tight from the cool air from the AC…
or from anticipation. My gaze travels down the gentle swell of her belly, the flare of her hips, the blond triangle of curls at the junction of her thighs.
She’s utterly exposed. Utterly trusting.
And she’s mine. At least for this moment.