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Heat weaves up the sides of my face. “No.”
The fingers of her right hand plow into my hair, her nails scraping my scalp in hypnotic circles, her hips grinding, grinding on my cock. God oh God. “Have you wanted to?”
“Not this bad,” I admit in a hoarse rush. “Not like this. Like I want to with you.”
I expect her to be triumphant or pleased to hear me say it out loud. That I want her.
Instead, she moans into my shoulder, clawing at my shirt.
She shakes. Violently.
Concern breaks through my hunger and I hold her tighter, hating her shivers, tipping her face up so I can search it. “Jane?” Tell me how to fix it. I’m clueless.
Brown eyes dazed with lust look up at me. “Take me upstairs,” she whispers. “We can learn how to dance laying down.” Her lids fall and she trembles harder. “Please?”
If I’m not mistaken, this bombshell of a girl is begging me to fuck her.
I don’t understand it.
It makes absolutely no sense and as someone who has been constructing mathematical formulas since childhood, I need things to make sense. I need reason. Alignment. Even if all I want to do is say yes, unzip my pants and find heaven inside Jane’s pussy. But why?
Why would she let me do that? She can have anyone.
“Is this about my money?” Jane goes very still against me. And while there is a voice in the back of my head shouting at me to shut my stupid mouth, I rush to qualify my question. “I’m not passing judgment. I’m…I’m saying it makes perfect sense if you’re interested in me because I can give you security. And gifts and…a safety net. Whatever you want. There’s nothing wrong with that, Jane—”
“You think I want you because of…money?”
Take it back.
Take it all back.
I was wrong. I can see that now.
Jane genuinely wants me. Of course she does. No one can fake desire so authentically.
But I’m too late to backpedal. With an anguished sound, she tears herself away from me and stumbles around the island, gathering up her paperwork in a messy rush, holding it to her chest and clicking at top speed out of my kitchen.
“Jane. Wait.”
“Thanks for the drink,” she says breathlessly, reaching the door, trying to open it with her elbow. “I’ll discuss the party details with your assistant.”
“No. I want you to discuss it with me.” Panic slices into my ribcage like a knife. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking…saying that to you—”
“It’s fine.” She’s red nosed, sniffing back tears. What the hell have I done? “It’s pretty obvious how shallow I am, right? Not the kind of girl who thinks of things like”—she nods down at her pile of notes on my company party—“designated drivers and taxi service. Not like you.”
That gives me momentary pause. It’s an odd thing to bring up when we’re discussing how tragically I just put my foot in my mouth. And that pause is all she needs to get the front door open and run from the house. God, I am totally out of my depth here. I know I can’t have this girl. The way she makes me feel is too good and I don’t want good. I won’t allow it.
But I chase after her nonetheless, my fucking heart in my mouth.
I can’t let her leave like this.
“Please. I’m an idiot.”
“No, you’re not.” Right before she ducks into the driver’s side, she hesitates. “Your judgment is right on the money. Goodbye, Byron.”
“Jane.”
She closes the door and locks it. Still, I pull on the handle, raking helpless fingers through my hair when I can’t reach her. All I can do is watch her back down my driveway without giving me so much as a glance in the rearview.
And I should let her go.
I should remain in my survivor’s guilt indefinitely, because I owe it to my sister to grieve. She deserves someone to be sad for her. Forever. But I know there’s no way in hell I won’t try and fix what I’ve just broken with Jane. I can’t let my gross underestimation of her character be how she remembers me. I’m going to see her again.
Soon. I just have to find the right formula to gain her forgiveness.
With urgency and purpose riddling my gut, I turn and stride back into the house.
Three
Jane
I press my face to the smooth bamboo of the cabana wall, staring through the gap toward the Olympic-sized swimming pool in Byron’s backyard.
Why isn’t he swimming?
He always swims on weekday mornings. It’s his ritual.
Wake up. Down a cup of black coffee.
Drop his sleep boxers and tug a Speedo up those enormously thick thighs. Watching him through the windows of his house as he treks to the pool, still half sleepy, is usually the best part of my day. But he’s not here. He’s not even home. Did he go somewhere last night?
