Chapter 23 #3
Jaxson in his work clothes was a sight that should come with a warning label.
The tailored suit jacket emphasized his broad shoulders, the crisp white shirt contrasted with his tanned skin, and his loosened tie suggested a dishevelment that somehow only made him more attractive.
His amber-hazel eyes were dark, pupils dilated, tracking my movements with predatory intensity.
“A walk-in closet,” he repeated, his gaze dropping deliberately to where his shirt slipped off my shoulder. “That somehow resulted in you wearing this.”
The way he looked at me—like I was something precious and desired—made my stomach flip like an Olympic gymnast with a death wish. That strange warmth in my chest intensified, spreading through my limbs like liquid sunshine.
“I was going to change before anyone got home,” I said, clutching the wooden spoon like it might save me from drowning in this sea of my own bad decisions. “But then I got hungry, and the ramen was right there, and one thing led to another…”
“One thing led to another,” he echoed, lips curving into a smile that made my knees weak. “And now you’re cooking in the kitchen, wearing my shirt, looking very… domestic.”
The word hung between us, loaded with implications that made my pulse skyrocket. I swallowed hard, throat suddenly dry. “I’m not—I mean, it’s not like I’m playing house or something. I was just hungry.”
His smile widened, turning slightly predatory in a way that should have scared me but instead sent heat pooling low in my belly. “Playing house,” he repeated, the words rolling off his tongue like he was tasting them. “Is that what this is?”
“No!” I protested, feeling my face heat to approximately the temperature of the sun. “It’s just ramen!”
“In my shirt.”
“In your shirt,” I conceded, waving the spoon for emphasis and accidentally flinging droplets of broth across the counter. “Which I will clean and return and never touch again, I swear.”
“That would be a shame,” Jaxson murmured, reaching out to adjust the collar of the shirt, his fingers deliberately brushing against my collarbone in the process. The contact sent electricity shooting through me, the golden warmth in my chest flaring brighter. “It looks better on you.”
My brain short-circuited completely at the compliment, unable to process that Jaxson—perfect, responsible, gorgeous Jaxson—thought anything looked better on me than him. “I—you—what—that’s not—I mean—”
Eloquence had clearly decided to take a vacation to a galaxy far, far away.
His lips curved into a smile that could only be described as devastating. “You know,” he said, voice dropping lower, “if we were playing house, there would be certain… traditions to observe.”
“Traditions?” I repeated stupidly, my brain cells waving little white flags of surrender.
“Mmm.” His fingers moved from the shirt collar to my jaw, tilting my face up to meet his gaze. “For instance, when someone comes home after a long day of work, there’s usually a greeting.”
My heart hammered against my ribs so hard I was surprised they didn’t crack. “A greeting,” I echoed, voice embarrassingly breathless.
“A special sort of greeting,” Jaxson confirmed, his thumb brushing across my lower lip in a touch so light I might have imagined it if not for the jolt of electricity it sent through me. “Between people who share a home. Who care for each other.”
The honey-sweet scent intensified in the air between us, wrapping around us like an invisible cocoon. I could barely breathe, caught in his gaze like a rabbit hypnotized by a particularly beautiful predator.
“Oh?” I managed, voice barely above a whisper. “What kind of greeting?”
The corner of his mouth quirked up. “I think you know, Lan.”
And I did. God help me, I did.
My gaze dropped to his lips—those perfect lips that had taught me how kissing should feel just one week ago, that had claimed my own with devastating skill. The memory alone made heat flood my body, the golden warmth in my chest pulsing with increased urgency.
“So,” Jaxson murmured, leaning closer until his breath mingled with mine, “shall we observe tradition?”
This was crossing a line. Again. Venturing further into territory we shouldn’t explore, deeper into this beautiful sin we’d begun that night one week ago.
The responsible part of me—the part that understood family dynamics and social boundaries—knew we should stop, step back, pretend none of this had happened.
But then Jaxson’s thumb traced my lower lip again, and responsibility packed its bags and left town without so much as a goodbye note.
Fuck it.
I surged forward before my brain could catch up with my body’s terrible decision-making skills, pressing my lips against Jaxson’s with all the finesse of someone who’d learned kissing from watching fish gasp for air.
For one horrifying moment, he went completely still, and I had a split-second vision of myself packing my bags and moving to a remote island where no one would ever find me or the smoldering remains of my dignity.
Then his hand shot up, fingers tangling in my hair with surprising force, gripping tight enough to make my scalp tingle as he tilted my head at precisely the angle he wanted.
“Open for me,” he growled against my mouth, the vibration traveling straight from my lips to parts of my anatomy that had absolutely no business participating in kitchen activities.