Jack leads me onto the patio surrounding the pool. The pool sparkles like sequins on a turquoise evening gown, all the way to where the water flows over the edge into infinity.
Bull sniffs at the edge of the water.
Jackson deepens his tone and says, “Don’t even think about it. You just had a bath.”
He turns to me. “The pool was already here. I probably wouldn’t have built it, but I’ve enjoyed the shit out of it.” His voice rolls over me like warm caramel sauce on ice cream.
“I can only imagine.” My breath has officially been stolen.
Bull and I follow Jackson to the top floor.
Master’s level, he calls it. Yeah, master of my libido. A giant king sized bed sits on the far wall, perfectly made up, not a wrinkle in sight. I could wrinkle it up pretty good with Mr. Tremaine right about now.
And that’s all it takes. One thought, and my pussy pulses.
Jack opens the double doors at the end of the long room. “And here’s the master bath, all ready for you.”
“What? Me?” I pull in a breath, trying to calm my suddenly abnormal heart rate.
He takes my hand, massaging my pinky knuckle, and pulls me into a room almost as large as the bedroom.
Holy-rich-fuck-smokes.
The free-standing tub must be hewn from one piece of stone, black with small hints of other colors. It reflects its surroundings like someone spent an afternoon polishing it. Steamy bubbles rise well above the rim like so much cotton candy.
I swallow hard. I so don’t belong in this room. The chasm between Jack’s world and my own just grew by about fifty million dollar-length spaces.
“What’s wrong, Peaches?” Jack pulls my hand to his mouth and lays a slow, sweet kiss on my palm.
I whip around, heading for the doors. “I probably should get home. This is so not my speed.”
He takes my elbow, pulling me up short and right into his arms. “What speed? I don’t understand. I thought you’d want to clean up and get the blood out of your hair.”
“Yeah. No.”
He cocks his head. “Why not?”
I lay my hand over the circular, tribal tattoo on his naked chest. The one I’d really like to lick. But no. It’s not even an option.
“I can’t tell you how kind you’ve been. Honestly, it’s a wonderful side of you that I didn’t expect. But this,”—I tap his chest—“this can’t go on. You and me? Two totally different worlds. I don’t even understand why you’d be attracted to me. I’m so far removed from the girls I’ve seen you with on the covers of the rag sheets.”
He takes my hands and pulls them to his lips. “What you see isn’t always what’s real. This is Hollywood. The land of make-believe. You see what the press wants you to see, what my PR team pushes out to the public. Don’t worry. You’re my type.”
I purse my lips. “What type is that, exactly?”
His eyebrows go up, and he has that deer in the headlights look. But then, that sexy ass grin blows me away. “The smart type. A woman who’s driven to succeed at whatever she chooses to do. One whose natural sex appeal calls to mine so loudly that I can’t walk away.”
Wow. What a load of bullshit.
I shake my head with a half smile at his attempts to—I don’t know—woo me into his bed?
He lets go of my hands and finds my ass, cupping it and pulling me into his erection. I can still taste him.
Oh. Lord. I’m done for.
Jackson drops a kiss on my mouth as he grabs my tit with his other big hand, massaging. “A real woman, not some plastic, hollow shell of what a woman should be. A woman with curves that fill my hands and promise a ride that’s going to rock my world ten different ways.”
There are words somewhere, but they’ve all hidden, or maybe they’ve been incinerated by the heat firing up my lower belly. I can’t find even one.
He whispers, “I want to explore every curve, every crevice, every spot that brings you pleasure. Because in your fulfillment, I’ll find mine.”
I pant, short little bursts of air between lips that crave his cock and more. His eyes search mine, and I can’t tear my gaze away.
Shit. Isn’t it just my luck?
I lick my lips.
“You know—” My voice is hushed as he leans down so his ear is close to my mouth, like he’s prepared to hang on every word.
“Know what, Peaches?” His eyes come to mine, intense and burning with desire.
“If I wash my hair, without any of my hair products for afterward, I’ll look like a poodle, all ready for the Westminster Dog Show.”
For about three seconds, confusion takes over his facial expression. Then his eyes light and he lets go of me, throws his head back, and laughs, hard and loud. When his eyes meet mine again, they sparkle almost as much as the pool outside.