Six of Hearts(85)
“Not ready to tell your old man about me yet, huh?” Jay asks, smirking.
Blushing, I shake my head and turn my attention to his CDs to try to distract myself from that kiss and how it sent my hormones into overdrive. I smile, noticing that he practically owns Eminem’s entire back catalogue. We have something in common. Jay must have gone through a rap phase, too.
“You like Eminem,” I say as he comes over and sits behind me, pulling me between his legs.
“I was an angry young man in the year 2000. Of course I liked Eminem,” he says. “Still do. The man’s a genius.”
“I agree. I used to buy his albums and listen to them in secret because Dad never let me buy anything with a parental warning sticker. What’s your favourite song?”
He makes a little humming sound in the back of his throat as he thinks about it, his hand brushing my inner thigh. His breath whispers across my nape, giving me tingles, and then he starts to sing the chorus to “Hailie’s Song” in a gorgeously low, husky voice.
Oh, God.
If I thought that kiss sent my hormones into overdrive, it has nothing on what Jay’s singing is doing to me. There’s something so incredibly appealing about his tone. My heart practically stops beating.
He sings about feeling like the weight of the world is on his shoulders, and it steals a little piece of my heart. When he’s done, he kisses my neck, and I let out a heavy breath.
“That’s the one about his daughter, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. It’s my favourite. Kind of reminds me of you, actually.”
“It does?” I ask. He has paternal feelings towards me? “That’s, um, okay.”
“The sentiment, Matilda, the sentiment. When I look at you, my head clears. Most times there’s a storm up in this brain of mine, but then you walk into a room and I can focus.”
“Jay,” I breathe.
“What?”
“Make love to me again.”
He chuckles. “Your dad’s right downstairs.”
“I know, but…God, you can’t say stuff like that to me when Dad’s home. Please make a note for future reference.”
He salutes me. “Noted.”
“I should go.”
“Why?”
“Because I still want you to make love to me. And Dad’s downstairs.”
He growls and pinches my bottom when I move to stand up. “Go on, then, Watson. Leave before you ravish me like the sexy bitch that I am. Are we still on for our sewing date tonight?”
“You mean are we on for you lounging on your chaise longue and watching me while I make dresses? Very weird, might I add, but sure. We’re on.”
His laughter follows me out the door.
***
That night in bed, I toss and turn. After spending two sexually frustrated hours in Jay’s company while I worked on my dress designs and he gave me heated looks, I’m not exactly feeling ready for sleep. I’m ready for other things that involve a bed, though. And that’s the problem.
I agreed with him to take things slow. Does that mean no more sex?
A floorboard creaks outside my room and the door opens, revealing Jay in a T-shirt and sleep pants. Without a word he crawls into bed beside me, grabbing me by the hips and pulling me into him, my back flush with his front.
“Couldn’t sleep?” I ask softly as he presses a kiss to my neck.
“Nope. I will now, though,” he replies, and snuggles into me. It takes a couple of minutes for his breathing to even out and for him to fall asleep. I follow soon after.
***
The next day at the office, upon Dad’s request, I’m working on transcribing his notes from his interviews with Jay. I’m finding it all very intriguing, but something niggles at me. It looks fine on paper, but I have this weird feeling that there are blank spots, pieces of the story that have been intentionally left out.
My suspicions are instantly forgotten when I get an unexpected visitor. We don’t have any appointments until after lunch, so I glance up to see who just entered the reception area. My anxiety elevates when I recognise who it is.
Una Harris saunters in wearing fire-engine-red high heels, matching lipstick, and a tight grey shift dress, a designer handbag dangling from her arm. If I didn’t dislike her so much, I might give her a compliment for looking so hot for a woman who must be well past her prime. It’s kind of difficult to determine her true age, due to the amount of Botox she’s sporting.
I clear my throat. “Can I help you?”
She pulls off her Gucci sunglasses and levels her green eyes on me, studying me for a long time. Then quite randomly she gestures to my neck, the side that’s scarred. “I know an excellent doctor who could fix that right up. Would you like his number?” she asks casually, eyes moving to scan the room.