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.
He takes my chin and pulls me to him, laying a hard kiss on my mouth. “I don’t want to make love to your hair. I like it and everything, but that isn’t at all what makes my cock hard when I think of you. When I look at you. When the breeze carries a scent that reminds me of you.”
I step away from him, toward the bathtub. Before I let myself think about it too much, I whip my top over my head. It bites a little when it brushes my injury, but this will be worth it, I’m sure.
The two sports bras have to go. That’s trickier. I struggle a bit to get them both up and over my breasts at the same time. Getting them off my crossed arms is even worse.
Bull’s nails click on the tile as he prances around me, barking as though he thinks I’m starting a game.
What the fuck? SO not sexy. So NOT sexy.
My ears heat. Thank God I can’t see Jack’s face right now. I probably look like some sort of lunatic, struggling to get out of a straight jacket. There has got to be a better way.
Jackson employs the tone from earlier. “Bull. NO. Go lay down.”
The clickety- click of the dog’s nails fades as he leaves the room.
Jackson coughs as he lays his hands on my waist. “Let me help.”
If I could face-palm right now, I would. But my arms are trapped in two layers of super-strength spandex, designed to keep my Double-D girls from blacking my freaking eyes when I play sports.