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That fucking voice I hadn’t heard in six-and-a-half years, melodic and soft and so fuckingher.
I had never in my life had to jack off so badly that I pulled my vehicle off the road, onto the shoulder of a fucking highway, and took my cock out while cars blasted by and I did not give one fuck who sawme.
But I did justthat.
Not five minutes after dropping her off with Jude, on my way to pick up Amanda… because no one needed to see me like that. So totally fuckedup.
Christ, who doesthat?
A maniac, that’swho.
And if I was a maniac, it was because Jessa Mayes, once upon a time, turned me into one. But shit happens, yeah? I was a kid then. Since then, I’d become a man. I wasn’t gonna unravel at Jesse’swedding.
And Ididn’t.
I was good. I hadthis.
Until I heard her name, just somewhere in the ether, and I knew she washere.
Jessa.
Someone said it, somewhere, and I turned to look across the room like a dog tossed a scrap. Pretty sure I salivated. My wine glass broke in my hand. It made an audible popping sound, and both Amanda and I looked down to find the delicate bowl of the glass, still in my hand, cracked, wine dribblingout.
At least I wasn’tbleeding.
“Omigosh,” Amanda said, and grabbed a bunch of napkins from the bar to help me. “Um… I think you’re supposed to finish drinking the winebeforeyou break the glass.” She smiled at me, then got the bartender to whisk the broken glass away and hand me a freshone.
While I just stoodthere.
Staring across theroom.
Because Jessa Mayes had just walked in wearing a dress that couldn’t possibly be legal on thatbody.
Not that there was anything scandalous about the dress on its own. It was fitted to her goddess-like curves, but it was longish, ending just below the knee, the neckline dipping no lower than her collarbone, with half-sleeves. It wasn’t exactly an upstaging-the-bride sort of dress. It wasn’t white, slutty, or showing miles of leg—and Jessa Mayes had miles and miles of leg under thatthing.
It was just what it did to my brain when I saw her init.
It was made of what looked like thick, bunched-up silk. Not quite peach, not quite pink… salmon? Iced-rose-cantaloupe-sorbet? I had no idea what the fuck a chick would call it, but it was motherfuckinghot.
Along with her silky, slightly wavy hair that reached pretty much exactly to her nipples, worn smooth, the ends curled under and one side tucked behind a perfect ear, she looked like a screen siren out of some old black-and-white movie—but in vivid flesh tones, like some technicolor wetdream.
Hard to tell when I’d picked her up at the airport in that furry jacket, but now I could see how she’d changed since she went away—in all ways holy and good. As a little girl she was cute, a little dorky, scrappy, with her mane of wild brown hair and those big brown eyes. As a teenager, she got lithe and limber, swanned right out into an angel-facedbeauty.
As awoman…
I’d seen photos of her these last six-and-a-half years. Professional photos from high-end shoots for major fashion brands. It was pathetic how often I’d searched her on the web, found new shots of her from some swimsuit shoot or lingerie campaign I hadn’t yet seen, and savedthem.
None of those photos came close to capturing what I was looking at rightnow.
Jessa’s eyes found mine across the room… and that wide-eyed look of hers went straight to mydick.
Christ.
She turned away, hastily. Then she bent down to give Dolly a hug, giving me a first-rate view of her perfect, heart-shaped ass, and I just about broke another wineglass.
It was fucking official. The woman was trying to killme.
Wasn’t enough that I was dead to her; she was actually trying to endme.
