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He guides me to lie on the mat. His hand works its way across my knee and up my thigh while he stretches out on his side next to me. One finger slips under the elastic of my panties, and he explores the crease between my leg and body. A noise between a rumble and purr escapes my lips.
Jack shifts to hover above me. “I believe you mentioned the need of Donal Cam’s sword?” He’s pressed so close, even through layers of costume, I know exactly where that sword is.
Oh, Jeez. The sword!
I pet the soft, red-gold down covering his arm, a contrast to the bristles on his chest. When I reach his hand, I reluctantly move it out from under my skirt. “They’re waiting for me in the writer’s room.”
He drops his head against my collarbone, panting harder than when he sparred with Jimmy. “Now?”
“They need your sword.”
He lifts his head, flashing me a crazy hot, Wicked Jack smile. “Are they the only ones?”
I pull him down for a lingering kiss. “Give me your silver sword.”
He rolls onto his back. “Are you trying to make me burst?” His hand snakes between my back and the mat. “I’ll give it to you on one condition.”
“Which is?” I sit up and straighten my clothes.
He gently cups my ass. “Come home with me tonight.”
My heartbeat kicks up even higher. Things with Jack are going so fast, good judgement doesn’t stand a chance to catch up. “I don’t know how late I’m going to be here with the writers.” As the energy we stirred up with our kisses slowly dissipates, his body slumps deeper into the mat. He’s exhausted. Even though Jack’s clearly in enviable shape, a long day of shooting and then his workout with Jimmy takes its toll. “And you looked whipped.”
He sits up beside me, kissing a path from the hollow in my throat to the top button of my blouse. “Never too whipped for—”
I reclaim the button he attempts to undo with his teeth and nudge him away. “You need to go home and collapse.”
“Only if you promise to spend the day with me tomorrow. I’ll take you round the Ring of Kerry.”
“What if someone sees us?”
“We’ll steer clear of tour buses and popular spots. I want to share places dear to my heart, so you’ll know me better through them.” His eyes glaze over for a moment. I know he’s envisioning things I have yet to discover. “I can be careful, Gilly. So can you. As I said, we’ll figure this out.” He fans his finger between the two of us.
“This could be a colossal mistake.”
“Could it?”
“You know it could.” I brush long, honey-colored strands off his face.
He closes his eyes while I stroke. When I stop, his expression turns serious. “We’re two smart people who don’t back down from a challenge. Let’s give us a go.”
Jack speaks the language of “we”, of “us”—something Treat never did. This man is not asking me to deceive or pretend not to exist. In building too high a wall to protect my emotions, I may deprive myself of potential joy with Jack. He’s asking me to have a say in how we move forward. I won’t let being with Jack turn into a shadow world like my life with Treat.
There’s a way to be real and still be smart. Together, we’ll find the right way to define “us.” We have to. The more I’m with Jack, the less I can control the need to have this man in my life, not parallel to it.
I slide my thumb across his bottom lip to his chin and take him in a kiss. My “yes” to Jack. Before it escalates into something that makes my absence from the writer’s room long enough to require a search party, I wiggle away from him.
He drops onto his back with an exaggerated sigh, turning his head toward me. As he watches me lift the crazy heavy Donal Cam sword he’s abandoned, a smile plays across those dusty rose-colored lips.
I mimic one of the stances Jimmy demonstrated, even though I have to use two hands instead of one, and point the tip of the blade at his nose. “Okay, Jack. Let’s figure us out.” Before I drag the sword from the room, I turn back to him. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
ChapterTwelve
The perfect place to commit death by freezing is on the shore of the Atlantic Ocean in February before dawn. My teeth chatter so hard I’m afraid I’m going to bite my lip.
Just as I find the perfect place next to the Charlie Chaplin Statue to block the wind, a single pair of headlights appears in the distance. I’m alone on this stretch of the Waterville Heritage Trail at half-six in the morning so I can safely jump into Jack’s car without turning up on the front page of a tabloid.
A stab of fear makes my heart race. What if the car is Bobby coming home after an editing all-nighter? How am I going to explain lurking around Mr. Chaplin in the pre-dawn hours? I slide around to Charlie’s back and catch a blast of freezing air off the water.
