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‘Too many.’ It’s so gruff, so husky, so fucking sexy. ‘The things I’ve wanted...the things I’ve fantasised about doing...’
Whoa, whoa, whoa.
‘Rewind!’ I press my palm into his chest. ‘You’ve fantasised about me?’
His swallow is confession enough, the tension returning to his body, cording his neck, creating lines either side of his mouth.
‘And you’re only just admitting it to me now?’ A spark of anger hits. ‘Do you know how I’ve driven myself crazy fantasising about you? But no, you have to stick to your no-shagging-the-clients rule.’
‘You’re angry?’
‘Hell, yeah!’ I shove against him, forcing him back a step. ‘We could have had this done and dusted years ago and had it put to bed.’
His eyes flash. ‘In the literal sense?’
‘Fuck, Jackson! Is this some weird game you’re playing?’
‘No.’
And I believe him. That one simple word is so raw, and I know he means everything he has said.
‘So why now? What’s changed?’
‘I’m listening to you and you can be very persuasive when you want to be.’
‘But I’m still a member of your club?’
He rakes his hand through his hair, breathes in deeply and looks to the heavens before looking back to me.
‘Hell, Cait, the club is so far from my mind right now.’ He palms the trunk above my head, leans over me. ‘But it’s true—you shouldn’t shit where you eat.’
I choke out a laugh. ‘Shit? Really?’
There’s a spark of humour in his eyes, a glimmer of the Jackson I’m used to. Fun, teasing, easy-going. ‘Sorry PR lady, would you prefer I said you shouldn’t dip your pen in the company ink?’
Another laugh. ‘Better.’
His eyes scan my face, softening and serious all at once.
‘But it’s more than that with you...’ His hand falls to my cheek as he cups my jaw, the delicate touch stalling my breath. ‘I don’t want to hurt you.’
‘You won’t,’ I manage to whisper.
‘You can’t know that.’
‘I do.’ I nod in his hold, fighting the urge to kiss his palm—too sentimental. ‘I trust you, Jackson. I trust you enough for this one night, or...’
My brain is racing ahead. We’re here for three days. There are activities planned. A timetable with various gaps, night-time hours. ‘Why not make it three?’
I watch his jaw pulse. ‘Three?’
‘We’re here for a few more days.’ I shrug with the nonchalance I know I need to convey. ‘Why not make it a holiday fling?’
I look down at his sporran and toy with its flap. I seriously do have the hots for his attire. I wonder if I can get someone to wear something similar down south when the mood suits.
Yeah, right. I shoot the idea down. It leaves me cold. Not even the Groom himself—the tall, dark and ruggedly handsome Ash—can beat the appeal that is all Jackson.
And again, I’m back to the same conclusion. It’s him. Not wedding fever, not his clothing, not his no-sex-with-clients rule that I’d love to flout, but him. Purely him.
