Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 80834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
“Nah,” he says. “That one’s from a can opener. But it sounds better if I blame the Taliban, so that’s my story.”
I giggle at his sense of humor. “Liar.”
He grins, unrepentant. “You said you wanted stories, not the truth.”
We talk, and I mean actually talk. The alpha male tells me about flying in and out of airfields so rough the runway was more suggestion than surface. About Christmases spent eating C-rations with “the world’s most degenerate men,” as he calls his old squadron. But it’s not a one-sided conversation because Jack asks me questions about my life too, drawing out emotions from below the surface. I admit how much I hate my job, and how working at a law firm is just babysitting grown children who never learned to use email. I try to keep it light, but Jack listens with real attention, nodding even when I veer into complaints about the other paralegals and their obsession with Pinterest.
He listens. He makes me feel interesting, important, not just another distraction from the boredom of civilian life. Even when I’m yammering about nothing, he’s looking at me like he’s memorizing every word.
The food disappears fast, and Jack is the one who clears the plates, piling them in the sink but not bothering to wash yet.
“Let’s move this to the couch,” he says, grabbing the wine and the glasses. “I want to feel those curves, sweetheart. They’ve been distracting me all during dinner.”
He doesn’t have to ask twice. We settle in, and this time I don’t bother pretending I’m not excited. The couch is wide and soft, the cushions perfect for curling up. I kick off my flats and tuck my feet under me, before leaning against the huge bulk of my man, reveling in his heat and nearness.
Jack pours more wine, but I barely taste it because all my senses are attuned to him: the warmth of his body, the strength in his arm when it drapes behind my neck, the way his eyes go dark when he looks at my lips.
There’s a silence, thicker than the jazz in the background. It’s a moment you could cut with a knife, but neither of us moves, like we’re waiting for the other to give permission.
Finally, he speaks.
“I haven’t been able to think about anything but you since we met, Eliza.”
The words are powerful, making my heart swoop as my cheeks go hot. I bite my lip.
“Same,” I admit. “It’s kind of scary, actually.”
He laughs, but it’s soft and gentle. “Scary’s okay. Sometimes it’s the only way to know you’re alive.”
I put my hand on his knee, just to see what he’ll do. His thigh is warm, the muscle tense. He covers my hand with his own, squeezing gently.
“I want to kiss you,” he rasps.
“So do it,” I whisper.
He does. Not tentative, not gentle. The first kiss is rough, a test of wills, tongues colliding and breath stolen. I clamber onto his lap, straddling his hips, my dress bunching around my thighs. His hands go to my waist, pulling me in, and I can feel him already hard under the layers of fabric.
Jack breaks away for a second, his blue eyes almost black with desire. “You’re not what I expected, sweetheart.”
I smile. “Good.”
Then I kiss him again, deeper, wetter, letting every bit of hunger and want pour out. He slides his hands up my back, fingers curling into my hair, and it’s all heat and pressure and friction.
There’s no pretense left, no “should we” or “is this okay.” It’s just him, me, and the certainty that if we stopped now, we’d regret it forever.
His mouth moves to my throat, biting just enough to hurt, and I arch into it, desperate for more. My hands are on his chest, his arms, everywhere at once. I want to touch every inch, taste every part of him, memorize the way his skin feels under my fingers.
He groans, low and guttural, and the sound goes straight to my core. I grind down, rubbing my wetness against his cock, and the friction makes me whimper.
“Eliza,” he growls. “If we keep going—”
“Don’t stop,” I plead, and I mean it.
He kisses me again, and this time it’s even better: wild, unrestrained, as if he’s waited years for this.
I feel weightless, drunk on him, every nerve ending set to maximum. I don’t care if the neighbors can see, don’t care if my parents are out there somewhere, don’t care about anything except this man, and the way he makes me feel.
Jack pulls back just enough to look at me, really look, his eyes burning, and sees my need. He sees my flushed cheeks, the way I breathe, and the longing in my eyes.
He smiles, all predator and promise, and then stands, lifting me with him like I weigh nothing at all.
“You’re coming with me,” he growls.