Is he thinking of that too? His huge dick sliding in and out of my mouth?
It comes to mind every time I sit on this couch. Sometimes, when I’m home alone, I sit here specifically to think of it. Those times, I usually bring my vibrator.
He nudges me with his knee. “Shayna gonna be home anytime soon?”
“Not sure.”
He sets his plate on the side table and settles into the cushions, his hands behind his head. “I want to bend you over the back of this couch and eat some pussy for dessert.”
And that small flame in my lower belly blooms into an inferno. This is getting ridiculous.
I have to stop this before it ruins my life. “Not today, Jack.”
His eyebrow quirks. “You sure? Because I have it on good authority that you like it when I slurp up your juicy-juice.”
“Good authority?” Oh, Lord, here we go.
“Sure. I suck it up, and you immediately make more. Pretty definitive proof, if you ask me.” His dimples appear, and he runs the tip of his tongue over the bottom half of his grin.
“You really are something else, Jackson Tremaine.”
“Seriously—you don’t want to get busy?” He lays his hand on my thigh.
I jump from my seat before I give in to that little voice that comes from my lower lips. “Yes, I’m serious. There is zero chemistry between Dave and me. It must have to do with the fact that I’m involved with you.”
He quirks a brow. “We’re involved?”
Exasperation escapes with my sigh. “You know what I mean.”
Jack rubs his chin, his expression difficult to read. It takes him a full minute before he pushes to his feet and gathers our dinner dishes. “All right. What can we do, since you won’t let me suck that pussy raw? Want to see a movie?”
His mouth moved. The words were audible. But there’s no way that’s right. “Did you ask me to go to a movie?”
He winks. “Sure. Remember? That’s where there’s this big screen and a bunch of people play-act some kind of story for entertainment purposes. I hear a lot of people really enjoy going, and even more when they go with a friend.”
A friend?
I let out a small sigh. Friends. Disappointment dampens the heat in my nether regions.
Disappointment? What is there to be disappointed about?
The answer to my unasked question hovers just out of reach, perhaps because I don’t really want to know.
He heads to the kitchen. “You don’t like the movies? We can do something else, if you want—no indoor skydiving, though. I promise.”
My stomach is heavy and my skin prickles.
The water turns on. Dishes clink as he washes them.
Jackson Tremaine—washing dishes in the house I live in. Jackson Tremaine, who said we’re friends. Jackson Tremaine, a man I never wanted to be my friend.
My feet root to the carpet as I try to work out how I got into this mess. Was it the way he took such good care of me when I busted my head? Is it because he keeps showing up, always smiling, joking, bringing the sunshine from the outside in? Or how he works so hard to bring me pleasure, even putting off his own?
I swallow. No. This isn’t right. It can’t be. I didn’t even particularly like him when we met. Do I actually like him now? Or could it be that my body likes what he does to it?
My muscles suddenly weaken. I drop to the sofa and squeeze my eyes shut.
Memories trip through my mind. All the smiles, his green eyes, his teasing dimples. Extravagant gifts and gentle—and some not-so-gentle—touches. The truth bears down on me like a boulder coming off a cliff.
I don’t just like him. I might love him.
THIRTEEN
Ronnie’s quiet as I stack the last plate on the drainer. Too quiet.
I head into the living room. She sits on the sofa, a dazed look on her face, chewing her thumbnail.
“Peaches? You not up for a movie?”
“Movie?” Ronnie stares at me as though I’ve sprouted a dick from my forehead.
“Just a thought. What were your plans for this evening? Besides leaving me with a raging case of blue balls?”
The blank expression fades. There she is.
She stands and brushes her curls aside. “Since we’re supposed to keep our time together on the low down, I have a new desk I’m going to put together. I’m not sure what you want to do.”
“I’ll help you. I’m mechanically inclined.”
She leads me to her bedroom, where the box for her particle board desk lies in the floor. Taking a screwdriver from the top of her chest of drawers, she pries open the end of the box.
Thirty minutes into it, we still sit in the floor with pieces and parts and screws and bolts scattered. I’ve put together a large portion of the furniture.