Page 87 of A Perfect Fit

I want him to do everything to me.

Everything.

My chest heaves up and down as the uncertainty of what’s going to happen next torments me. Bubbles of silence float in the air, coupled with thick tension, and it’s pure torture. I’m craving the taste of him, and I desperately need his lips on mine again, almost as much as I need air.

A smoldering look enters Jackson’s hooded eyes, and his voice carries a gravelly and dangerous tone when he speaks again. “Tell me about the dream you had about me.”

My cheeks flush. Oh Lord. He knows about that dream. The dream which I definitely accidentally let slip that time I visited his office.

I swallow. “Bold of you to assume I implied I had a dream about you and not someone else.”

Something dark flashes in his eyes, and he drags his mouth to mine again, eliciting a moan from me. “Don’t lie to me now, Isabelle.”

My name sounds like a sin on his lips, and this time, instead of embarrassment, I’m feeling something else. Anticipation. Thrill. Euphoria.

If he wants to reenact that dream, I’ll more than happily cooperate.

“You … um …” I attempt to form words, but my mind’s a haze.

“Maybe this will help refresh your memory,” he rasps, then slowly peppers a series of delicious kisses along my jaw.

He really knows all the right things to do and say.

“You picked me up, and I looped my legs around your waist,” I recall, my voice shaky as the memory of my now-not-so-forbidden dream comes back to me.

Jackson picks me up, and his simmering gaze searches desperately for mine, velvet and silk and sinful. I hook my legs around his body as he pins me against the wall.

“And then?” he demands. I’ve never heard him sound so commanding, but I’m convinced it’s the hottest thing ever. “What happened next?”

“You … you placed me on the counter and began to kiss …”

Without waiting a second, Jackson carries me to the desk in his hotel room and slowly trails more kisses down my jawline and neck.

The hairs rise on the nape of my neck, and my body shivers with pleasure. I thread my fingers through his hair, desperately seeking more contact with him. With each touch of his lips against my skin, it’s as if I’m slowly losing control of myself, my thoughts, feelings, and emotions.

Yet I’ve never felt more alive.

There’s something so hot about Jackson kissing me while he’s wearing the sweatshirt I made for him, and, God, I don’t want him to stop.

He works his way down my collarbone and to the top of my chest. “As much as I love this dress on you, it needs to go.”

“I agree,” I whimper.

A smirk tugs at his lips, which now has my pink lipstick over it. “Is that what happened in your dream, too?”

I hesitate. “No, because at that point, I woke up and realized it was nothing but a dream.”

My breath hitches. Maybe everything that’s happening is just another dream, and I’ll wake up at any second. Or maybe he’s going to want to stop now.

Thick silence hangs in the air once again, adding to the bundle of nerves tormenting my body.

Jackson cups my face, his eyes staring into mine, tender and unwavering. “Everything that’s happening right now … this isn’t a dream. This is all real. So real.”

And that’s all the assurance I need to know I’m not dreaming right now.

“Would you like to keep going?” he asks. “If not, we’ll stop right now, no questions asked.”

“Yes,” I whisper and fully mean it. “I want us to keep going.” My voice comes out pleading, but I don’t care.