“That’s a good sign, right? Fever’s breaking.” My body has been struggling between chills and heat for nearly two days.
“I think,” I say, hoping he releases me and moves away. Instead, his arm tightens over my middle, and my back rests against his chest. Through the thin T-shirt I’m wearing, his chest feels firm and bare. Warmth radiates from him to me. My legs twitch, feeling the coarse hairs of his against mine.
Holy Count Dracula. Is he only wearing boxer briefs behind me?
Jacob is not ashamed of his body. In fact, he’s rather proud of it. He works out religiously in his home gym, equipped with weights and boxing equipment. His physique is that of a fighter, and he’s merciless once he gets going on the punching bag. The muscle of his arm flexes around me, and he nuzzles deeper into my neck, inhaling my skin.
“You smell sweet,” he whispers.
“You mean like sweat,” I correct with a huff.
“Nope, sweet, like your namesake, Lilac.” That isn’t my name. I’m Pam Carter, but Jacob has taken to calling me Lilac almost twenty-four seven as if no other name exists. Then again, when he’s angry, my given name comes out. It’s rare that he’s angry with me, though. I’ve heard his fights with Mandi. Yes, Mandi with an “i”.
Mandi, sweet as candy, she’s known to say during interviews. She’s a model or something, and thirteen years younger than Jacob. I’m actually not certain what she does. She’s more like a bored heiress with too much money and a serious lack of body fat.
My legs shuffle as they ache, rubbing against Jacob’s, and he adjusts behind me. Something pokes me in the backside, and I still.
Is he? . . . He can’t be . . . Not with me.
“Jacob,” I whisper, wanting to wake him from his slumber and remind him I’m the one he has his arm around. Not his girlfriend but me, his assistant. The woman he claims saved his life. “It’s me, Pam.”
My voice speaks louder, but at the same time, my fingers stroke down his forearm over my midsection. Without thinking, I scratch back up the length, tenderly dragging my nails over the coarse hair. Back and forth, I stroke from wrist to elbow, and repeat.
“Hmm. That feels nice, angel.” Something brushes my shoulder. Did he . . . did he kiss me?
Maybe I’m the one dreaming. Maybe I’m the one unconscious and slipping into an abyss of pure wannabe. I want to be Jacob’s girlfriend. I want to be his lover. I want to be his best friend.
And all of these wants make me ridiculous.
I still and pat his arm with a short, sharp slap. His fingers curl into a fist, knuckles brushing over my breast before clutching the fabric of his tee at my chest.
“What did you do that for?” he grumbles into the back of my neck.
“Just want to make sure you’re awake and realize you have your arm around me. Pam.” I emphasize my name again.
“Don’t know a Pam,” he teases. “Only know my Lilac, who is typically sweet and lets me sleep. Now, can we please go back to that?” He chuckles, rubbing his nose along my skin and then slipping his arm off me. He rolls to his back behind me and the loss of his body leaves mine instantly cold. I curse myself for suggesting he pull away, but the rational side of me screams it’s for the best.
Jacob Vincent would never truly be interested in a woman like me.
Chapter 3
For The Record
[Jacob]
I’m so hot for her, and I’m fucking hard as a hammer. With her back to me and my head turned in her direction, I sweep a hand down my abs and into my boxers to adjust myself. Nothing I do gets my dick to go down. She’s sick, but still so sweet and her curves—damn. I jolt in my shorts, turn to face the ceiling, and scrub both hands over my day-old stubble.
I shouldn’t be in bed with her. I shouldn’t be near her, touching her, or thinking of her, but for the past two-plus years, Pam Carter has consumed me. My Lilac. An angel in the night who saved my life when she should have let me die. I’ve had a death wish more than once although I’ve never acted upon it. I’m reckless, not stupid, yet some say they go hand in hand.
Lying next to Pam is both reckless and stupid.
Especially after a ten-day trip with Mandi. It was hell. Mandi Hamilton and I have had one of the most tumultuous relationships in the history of relationships. We fuck. We fight. We break up. We get drunk. Then we see one another at a party, and the cycle starts all over again. I used to think it was almost fun because I’m a sick fuck like that. The hate fucking. The heated arguments that shifted to aggressive make-out sessions. The thrill of taking her at a moment’s notice. However, the excitement of Mandi came to a screeching halt when I looked up into the eyes of a vision of innocence one night.
Lost. High. Crashed.
And there she was.
“Don’t you dare die on me,” she’d said. I took those words to heart. I would not leave her. I wouldn’t dream of dying ever again.
I also didn’t think I’d see her after that night. That night when an angel looked me in the eyes.
Of course, I hardly remember the moment, but she came to visit me the next day, and I put all the pieces together. I’ll never forget the woman with eyes that not only wanted to scorch me for driving under the influence but also forgave me for some reason. She was my penance, and I didn’t deserve her.
Rolling my head back in her direction, I stare at the outline of her body. Despite the dark, the highlights are accentuated, like the hills and valleys of a map. The curve of her shoulder. The dip to her waist. The swell of her hip. My arm had been around her and my hand rested between her large breasts. My dick brushed against her firm ass, and I’m so freaking stiff.
Ice Cream. Frozen lakes. Snowstorms.
I need to concentrate on anything that will cool me off.
Her legs rustle under the sheets, and she twists to face me. Thankfully, she’s slipped back to sleep, and I’m praying she didn’t notice how hard I am.
I’m not really the nurturing type, but for reasons I can’t explain, I want to take care of her. I like having her this close to me and feeling like she needs me. She’s always doing everything for me, and I don’t always show her how much I appreciate her and how important she is to me. She’s not like anyone I’ve known before, except maybe my stepsister, Ella. It was such a shock to find Pam curled up on my couch—a bit delirious, definitely chilled, but as if she was waiting for me.
What would it be like to come home to a woman waiting for me?
Pam is so different from Mandi. She doesn’t want to pick a fight. She doesn’t want to criticize. She doesn’t complain.
I also note the physical differences, starting with the softness of her golden hair. Even plastered to her head from days of sleeping and without a wash, she’s beautiful. She’s this contradiction of innocence and temptation. With big denim blue eyes and bouncy blond waves to her chin, she wears bright lipstick in shades of red or hot pink. Her clothing is either too vibrant or all black. And her interests lean to the dark and morbid. She loves the shit I write.
Well, most of the time.
Her hand lays flat on the sheet. There isn’t much distance between us, and I twist myself to face her sleeping form. My fingers hesitantly reach for hers, curling around them. She’s warm, exuding heat, and I hope this means the fever is breaking. I don’t like to see her weak. She’s strong every other day, but then again, there’s a vulnerability underneath her tough exterior with me.