4. ELLY
4
ELLY
T he minute the door closes, I’m acutely aware of the pounding of my heart. I’d been joking when I’d told Jack he’d want to fuck me after he heard me sing. Winding him up. Teasing him. Maybe even flirting… but the look on his face when I finished was… frightening. Like if I’d given him the go-ahead, he would have torn me apart with his bare hands.
I’ve never been looked at like that before. It was so carnal. So animalistic . So different to the way Jack normally looks at me, and I liked it.
And to tease me about the growling. Dear Lord. I wish I’d never mentioned it. If any kind of deep, manly, rumbling sound had come out of his mouth at that moment, I would probably have jumped up to lock the door and not let him leave until…
Until what? What the hell am I thinking?
I’ve never spent any time alone with Jack until tonight. I barely even know him, really. He’s Kate’s older brother who appears at parties every so often, flirts with everyone in the room, and then leaves with some beautiful woman dangling off his arm.
I set down my guitar and tune into the pounding of my heart, and the steady beat of my pulse that I can feel right in my core.
I know I shouldn’t, but I slide my hand into the waistband of my pyjamas. I close my eyes, praying a futile prayer that maybe Jack Lansen hasn’t turned me on.
I edge lower, my fingers passing over my clit, ignoring the jolt of energy that sparks through me. I shift my legs wider and slide my fingers down to my entrance, only to find it completely and utterly slick.
Not that I needed the confirmation, but the feel of wetness against my fingers is like a blast of inevitability I was hoping to escape.
I drag my fingers over my clit, which is throbbing like it wants me to notice. Wants me to do something about it. I’m breathing slowly, paying attention to all the tiny currents of need and desire flowing through me.
How much do I want to give in to this? To forever hold the knowledge that I brought myself to orgasm thinking of Kate’s brother?
It’s not a good idea, but I can’t stop images of Jack sliding through my mind. His wet shirt over his pecs, the bulge of bicep through damp fabric, the hard expression on his face as he drove. Those eyes, so intensely blue and framed by eyelashes so long and thick it’s unfair they belong to a man. And the dark scruff on his square jaw that my fingers practically begged to brush against.
My hand is absentmindedly gliding over my wet slit as the images slideshow in my mind. What if this is more than the song and the intimacy of performing for an audience of one?
What if I actually like Jack Lansen?
The memory of his words filters into my mind. I’d just wait for you to realise it was mutual.
I abruptly still my hand. Nope. Not happening. I am not letting my best friend’s brother become my latest fantasy, even if it is only for one night.
I get up and traipse down the hall to my bedroom, my slippers scuffing along the floor. I stare down at them. Massive pink fluffy puffballs.
“You bitches,” I mutter.