Chapter 11
Kelly
My stomach is full of butterflies.
Not the sweet, polite kind.
These are feral little creatures.
Wild-winged things throwing a full-on mosh pit inside my body.
Every nerve ending feels lit up, buzzing, alive.
I expected J.T. to be pleased when I said yes.
Relieved.
Maybe smug.
He did, after all, admit to wanting me first back at Greyson and Clara’s wedding.
But this?
Being hauled up like some reckless fairy-tale princess and carried through his sprawling mountain mansion by a man whose shoulders could rival Paul freaking Bunyan’s?
That was not on my bingo card.
Is it hot as fuck?
Oh yes.
Very much yes.
The sensation swelling inside me is one part hope and two parts raw, undeniable lust.
He’s so big.
So solid.
Every step he takes up those stairs is steady, powerful, like he could carry me all night without breaking a sweat. I feel small in his arms—not diminished.
Just held.
Protected.
Wanted.
I don’t think any other man has ever made me feel like this.
Who am I kidding?
There was only one other man.
Just Mike the Cheat.
And it seems he fell short in even more ways than I thought.
When we reach the bedroom, I half expect J.T. to set me down and catch his breath.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he kicks the door shut behind him and spins me, so my back meets the wood with a soft thud.
His hand cradles my head—because that’s who he is. A protector. A man of honor.
And just too damn sexy for words.
My pulse slams in my ears.
He growls deep in his throat, and his eyes are positively on fire.
And I whimper at that look-no one has ever given me a look like that before.
He loosens his hold just enough that I slide down the length of him—every inch of his hard body brushing against mine.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Decadent.
My dress rides up as my feet find the floor, and his hands move immediately, cupping my backside through the thin fabric of my panties.
Heat floods between my thighs.
“Fuck, Honey,” he mutters, voice thick and rough. “What are you wearing under this thing? Never mind. I’ll check myself.”
The way he says it—confident, playful, absolutely certain—makes my breath hitch.
No one has ever touched me like this.
Like I’m a prize.
Like I’m temptation.
Like I’m the fantasy.
“Well, that’s a fucking shame, Honey. Cause you are every bit the fantasy to me.”
He steps back just enough to take me in, eyes dark and hungry, and something about that look makes my spine straighten.
I’m not just being taken.
I’m stepping forward.
I reach for him this time, fingers tugging at his jacket, pushing it off his shoulders.
It hits the floor somewhere behind him, forgotten.
He watches me like I’m doing something extraordinary.
But all I’m doing is choosing him back.
His hands come up, skimming over my arms, down my sides, fingers trailing heat through the thin fabric of my dress.
Every touch is firm but careful, like he’s memorizing me.
“You’re so fucking beautiful, Kelly,” he says, low and certain.
Not surprised.
Not amazed.
Certain.
His nimble fingers find the strings holding my dress together.
Then, he pulls.
My throat tightens.
The fabric parts.
J.T. exhales, his eyes riveted to my body as he reveals me inch by inch, peeling the fabric away from my chest and stomach, pushing it down my arms.
“I’m not delicate,” I warn him softly, even as my body arches into his hands. “I’m not some fragile thing.”
His mouth curves.
“Good,” he says. “I don’t want fragile. I just want you.”
The words go straight through me.
I’ve never felt like this before.
Not with Mike. Not with anyone.
This isn’t an obligation.
This isn’t routine.
This is electricity and gravity, and heat.
“C’mere,” he grunts and licks a trail from my neck to the valley between my breasts.
I clutch his shoulders.
J.T. is enormous.
So sexy.
So sure of himself.
But more than that?
He’s sure of me.
And as his hands move with growing confidence, as his mouth finds mine again—slower this time, deeper—I realize something that makes my knees go weak.
I’m not just turned on.
I’m awake.
And I don’t ever want to go back to sleep.