She’d kissed marks on a job before. She would play up her prude innocence and nothing more would happen. Rich men, she’d learned, found a hard-to-get woman enticing. A change from gold-diggers hunting for prey. After locating her targeted loot, she’d then feign illness and thank her dates, never to return their calls. A week or month or two later, she’d sneak in and secure her score.
No residual guilt. No longing for what could have been.
Kissing Not-Maxwell Elvis Jack David would wreck her. She knew it. She wasn’t sure she could avoid it, or even worse, fight it.
“I did say that, didn’t I?” Jack mused, unaware of her turmoil. Or maybe he was aware. It was impossible to hide her trembling limbs. “But kissing isn’t dating, is it?”
“You’re suddenly forward.” As hard as Shy Jack was to resist, Bold Jack was proving more challenging.
“Thing is,” he said, back to drawing sexy bottle circles, not meeting her eyes. “I’m painfully awkward around beautiful women, which is why I’ve been curt with you at times and generally artless. But when I get comfortable with someone, when trust takes over the nerves”—he looked at her then, right into her eyes—“when that happens, the confidence I feel as Elvis on stage bleeds into my life.”
He continued staring at her, unabashed, no wobble or skittishness in sight. Shivers erupted along her arms.
This is who I am, his piercing blue eyes said.
I like you. I trust you. I want to kiss you.
Exactly how she felt—accepted. Maybe because she’d shared more details of herself with him than she had with any other man. Maybe it was Tami and Imelda’s meddling and the desire it had stirred. Or maybe it was learning Jack’s handsomeness hadn’t been bestowed upon him flippantly, like those kids who were placed on pedestals, told time and again: this one will break hearts. Jack’s devastating looks had been earned through humility, his strong body probably honed to forget his knobby limbs had once let him down.
She couldn’t, for the life of her, contemplate letting him down. “I think it depends on the kissing,” she said, breathless.
“Excellent point.” He hummed, still focused on her.
She struggled to fill her lungs.
He smirked knowingly. “Let’s say, for argument’s sake, that I kiss your cheek. Would that be considered acceptable? A non-date kiss?”
The mentioned spot tingled with anticipation. “I believe that would be allowed.”
“And the crescent-moon scar on your shoulder?”
A shaky “yes” was all she managed.
“And the three freckles on your nose, and the birthmark just below your right collarbone, and the one on the back of your neck, that lines up with your spine?” He said all of this with his eyes locked on hers, confident in his seduction. He’d been studying her body without doing so overtly. No different than the way she’d snuck glances of his strapping physique while they’d been running or when emphasized in his tailored suits. Both of them had been lusting from the sidelines.
She shifted closer to him. “Only if I can kiss your jaw and the soft spot below your ear, where your skin meets your hair.”
He grunted, rough and low. Their staring game continued until he wrenched his gaze away and pulled out his wallet. Money slapped on the bar, he grabbed Clementine’s hand and hauled her off her stool. She heard a lewd comment from Tami or Imelda, but she didn’t care. She followed Jack willingly, around the tables and through the doors, into the unexpectedly thrilling night.
Gravel crunched under their hurried steps. A car exited the lot, the bass of a rock song fading as it disappeared. Jack guided her toward the side of the bar and stopped in a darkened spot. An outdoor light cast the tiniest sliver of light. She inhaled woodsy scents from the adjacent forest.
She inhaled all things Jack. Cold, spicy, icicles. “You always smell so fresh,” she said as he pressed her back against Whenever’s wooden exterior.
He released her hand to cup her face, brushed his thumbs along her cheeks. “Not when we’re running.”
“Even better then. Fresh and dirty at once.”
His eyes darkened at that. He traced a spot below her collarbone. “Here,” he murmured as though lost in a fog. He lowered his head and ran his nose where his fingers had feathered. His lips followed, an erotic press of his mouth to her skin.
Her breasts felt heavy and full, the ache spreading south.
“Here,” he repeated, moving to her shoulder. His tongue came out to play this time, tracing her crescent-moon scar. An unpleasant memory surfaced: the edge of a car lighter held against her skin. But his lips painted her scar with tenderness. A kiss to her neck. A kiss to the top of her breast. One to the bridge of her nose, his warm breath excruciating as it teased her lips. She needed to breathe his breath. Inhale him and his kindness. His whole heart. She needed to breathe him in and never exhale.
He flipped her around, pressed her front into the rough wood, his chest heavy against her back. The feel of his hard length nestled against the top of her ass had her seeing stars.
“Jack.” His name was a plea. For what, she wasn’t sure. Right now. I want this right now forever.
“Hush, my dear Clementine.” He brushed her hair to the side, found the birthmark he’d mentioned, now tingling under his light touch.
Tears sprung to her eyes. She was sad, happy, turned on, overwhelmed to have this caring man treat her with such reverence. Her throat clogged with emotion. Her skin was on fire. When he finally kissed the apex of her spine, the rest of his body moved back, pulling away so his mouth could reach her skin, and a tear slipped out, the loss of his body and feel of his wet lips too conflicting. I’m losing him. I’m gaining him. I’m lying to him.
He flipped her back around and wiped the tear that had escaped. He spread the saltiness on her lips. “I think you need one here, too.”
She nodded, too terrified to speak and break this spell.
His breath faltered as he neared, the swell of his chest expanding into hers. He slipped a hand into the hair at her nape and swiftly claimed her, lips on lips, tongue against tongue. A sweet kiss that turned disrespectful quickly. She hadn’t expected his aggressive taking or how his hands and body moved as though controlled by their lips. He rocked into her, his hands everywhere, kneading and groping, then coasting up to her neck, anything he could grasp. She was no less demanding. She dug her fingers into the meaty muscles of his back, practically tearing at his soft T-shirt.
Kissing Jack was a new kind of adrenaline rush, better than the thrill of cutting an alarm or slipping past security or nabbing a Picasso or Rembrandt or Jackson Pollock.
He wedged his thigh between hers, lifting her slightly, an anchor of lust pinning her to the wall. Pin me. Take me. Keep me.
Another surprising tear slipped out.
He slowed then, lowered his thigh and hands. He gave her one more luxurious kiss, then stepped back. “I got carried away.”
Judging by the sharp angle behind his fly, he was as overworked as her. “I wanted you to get carried away.” She dried her cheeks, embarrassed by the wetness. “I’m not one of those girls, by the way. I never get all emotional and cry.”
He tipped his head to the side. “With the right person, it feels good to let go.”