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“Your pussy is on my lap?” Jack finished.
I bit my lip. Again, it was supposed to be a so-dumb-it’s-kind-of-funny joke. But hearing the words leave Jack’s mouth made it feel entirely different.
“Maybe I should get that off there, before anyone wonders what my pussy is doing on your lap…” I said. I reached down to grab the sock, but instead of the loose fabric of his slacks beneath, I felt something hard. Very hard.
“What is that?” I stupidly asked.
“That is my penis,” Jack said. His voice was completely deadpan.
“I had a hunch,” I whispered. I loosened my grip on his extraordinarily girthy member, plucked the sock, and then dangled it between us. “Now I think I’ll just go shove my foot back in my... pussy.” I was speaking so quiet and haltingly that I was sure he could hardly hear me. If awkwardness carried momentum, I’d entered the stage where my foot had slipped off the cliff’s edge and I was currently rolling downhill at increasing speed. I was blasting through solid rock and slicing down trees with the force of my cringeworthy descent, and it felt like no force of nature could stop it.
Jack visibly swallowed, then stood. “I spent the whole ride here imagining how much I’d enjoy watching you strip down for me.”
I took a step backwards, still holding the sock up like it was some sort of hot, horny man repellant. If it was, I noted that I should get my money back, because the gorgeous god with narrowed, focused eyes was still advancing my way.
“Maybe we should think about this?” I suggested.
“That’s what got me into trouble. Thinking about what I would do to you when I got here. Thinking about how much you’d like it.”
“Oh, my.” I choked. “We’re doing the dirty talk thing now, aren’t we? Maybe we sh—” I was cut off when I backed into the couch and landed on my ass, legs splayed out and arms wide like I was a suburban dad—with a pink kitty sock in one hand—about to enjoy the game on a Sunday.
Jack didn’t miss a beat. He paused at the foot of the couch and planted his arms on the backrest, boxing me in. Thousands of generations of women buried somewhere in my DNA cried out in unison at the scent that drifted from him to my nose. Do it. They seemed to say. Do it.
All I could do was force a smile that absolutely didn’t fit the gravity of the moment. “You smell nice. Is that your soap, or…”
“Tell me ‘no.’” Jack said. “That’s the only way this stops.”
“No what?”
He trailed a finger down my jawline, then brushed my skin with his thumb. The tender gesture seemed to promise that we were both only a breath away from hot, tangled flesh and the kind of penetration I’d been warned to avoid at countless high school rallies.
Just say no.
Or was that about drugs? I guessed in this case it was a negligible difference. Jack Kerrigan was a drug. Dickanthetamine. Cockaine. Great Hairajuana. He was all things tempting and mind altering rolled into one rugged package.
Don’t think about smoking his pipe, Nola. Not appropriate. Not the time to be making sexual jokes in your head.
Jack was waiting for something. He was poised and coiled so tightly I could practically feel the potential energy radiating from him.
I tried to study the patch of his neck just above his collar, hoping some innocent view of him would let me think clearly. After all, what could be sexy about tanned, muscular skin disappearing into a crisp white collar? What was erotic about the slow pulsing vein that showed his steady, powerful heartbeat. What was the danger in… Well, crud.
“What happens if I say yes?” I asked slowly.
“I pick you up and carry you to my bed. I throw you down on the sheets, tear your clothes off, and find out if your pussy tastes even better than I’ve just spent the past hour imagining.”
I raised my eyebrows. “You really have an ability to paint a picture with words. Have you considered a career in the arts?”
At this point, I was just making sounds with my mouth. Pointless noises to delay what I was slowly realizing was the inevitable. I wasn’t going to say no. I wasn’t going to stop him. I was just too scared to open the door I knew was about to burst open on its own. I was waiting for him to do it for me. To kick it in and take me.
“Last chance,” he said.
I pressed my lips together. At that point, muttering that single syllable of denial felt as terrifying as the urge to suddenly yank the wheel into oncoming traffic. I wanted everything he was promising. I wanted it so badly I was too terrified to speak because I might say the wrong thing.
