“Oh,” I breathed.
His laugh was soft and dark. “Yes, oh. Stop talking.”
I couldn’t catch my breath, but it didn’t matter because his lips were on mine again. Little puffs of air through my nose would have to sustain me.
His hand in the small of my back became the iron band of his arm around my waist. My nipples tightened. His heartbeat crashed against my chest. The kiss turned from slow and sweet to hard and hot, first melting me and then lighting me on fire.
He tangled his hand into my hair, pulled the clip loose that held it all in place, and let it fall to the floor. He made that sexy, manly noise again when my hair spilled into his fingers. I fought the urge to press my hips against his, then softly moaned in relief when he did it for me, one big paw cupped under my bottom. Yes, yes, yes, thrummed my heart, aching for more.
He broke away, breathing heavily. My eyes drifted open. He stared down at me with a look like he might devour me.
Good thing I was in the mood to be devoured.
“We’re not done yet,” I whispered. I stood on my toes and wound my arms around his neck.
The kiss changed again. Desperation took over. Need took over. There was no more gentle exploration, no more unhurried pace. Now everything was white-hot and burning, clutching hands and greedy mouths, bodies straining to get closer. His fingers tightened in my hair. His hips rocked against mine. A new heaviness settled between my legs, and I wanted to violently rip off all his clothes and—
Someone knocked on my office door.
“Boss? Sorry to interrupt. Meat delivery finally arrived.”
It was Hoyt.
I was going to kill Hoyt. Probably with my bare hands.
“Thank you,” I called, sounding like I’d swallowed a handful of gravel. “I’ll be right out.” I glanced at Jackson and thought I might go up in a puff of smoke.
His eyes were heavy lidded, dazed and lust filled, glittering silver like the flash of a cat’s eyes in the dark.
I said, “I have to . . .”
“I know. Give me a second.” His voice was raw. He blinked slowly, combing his hand through my hair, watching the strands flow over his fingers.
Without thinking, I touched the scars on his jaw. He closed his eyes and made a soft noise like he was in pain.
“What are these scars from?”
My question broke whatever spell he’d been under. He dragged in a deep breath and reluctantly released me. With a cruel twist to his lips, he muttered, “A man-eating shark.”
He turned away and raked both hands through his hair, and I knew that mysterious response was as good as I was getting.
Flustered and unsteady, I hastily scooped my hair clip from the floor. I had all my hair stuffed into it in record-setting time, though I probably looked like an escapee from the mental asylum, goggle-eyed, wild haired, shaking and sweating. I smoothed a hand down the front of my white chef’s coat, which did absolutely nothing to calm me, but at least wicked the moisture from my palm.
I said, “Well. That was . . .”
My mind was as blank as a fresh sheet of paper.
Without turning around, Jackson blew out a hard, shuddering breath. Over his shoulder he said, “Get the contract reviewed by an attorney as soon as possible. Send the invoice to me. And I need to meet your mother.”
He opened the door and was gone.
I sank slowly into my chair and allowed my knees to stop knocking and my heart to slow down before I went out to see about the meat.
The next day I visited an attorney in town who looked at Jackson’s contract for a long time while the wrinkles on his forehead multiplied faster than rabbits. More than once he glanced up at me across from him as I nervously twisted my fingers together, aiming for nonchalant and missing by a continent.
Judging strictly from his expression, he thought I might be wearing a hidden camera.
“Miss Hardwick,” he began carefully, pushing the contract toward me across his desk as if he thought it might burst into flames. “This is . . . unusual.”
My laugh was closer to a donkey’s bray. “You don’t say!”
“I’ve never seen anything quite like this before,” he said, disturbed. Under the fluorescent lights, his bald head glowed like a streetlamp. “I assume that you’re entering into this agreement due to . . .” he coughed politely into his hand. “Financial problems?”
“Bingo. So give me the bad news.”
He looked startled. “You’re marrying a man solely for his money. What other bad news do you need?”
He was lucky this was on Jackson’s dime, because that little zinger would have made me get up and walk out before he could dispense whatever sage advice he’d be dispensing.
“I’m talking about the contract. What’s bad in there for me?”