The Phoenix Candidate(57)

Now I’m on top, my hair spilling over one shoulder in a curtain of curls. I’m on top and I control the pace and rhythm and distance of my mouth to his.

I sit up, feeling his cock still hard inside me, rubbing my hands across his chest. “I want to kiss you, Jared. But I don’t want to hurt you.”

His eyes are tight, but he nods. “You won’t.”

I hesitate, and he nods again. This is the most intimate thing we’ve ever done, and I don’t take it lightly as I plant my first, chaste kiss on the corner of his mouth.

Never mind he’s inside me. This kiss, this brush of lips, threatens to make my body burst into flames.

Jared is still and I run my hands lightly over his jaw, down his neck, and then up through his hair. I trace his broad forehead and dark brows with my thumbs, and bend to kiss each of them in turn.

I kiss his lashes, his cheekbones, the tip of his nose. I kiss that soft spot in front of his ear where his beard doesn’t grow, and then the quirky smile lines that form parentheses around his expressive mouth.

I kiss the place just under his lips, and the curve of his lower lip. I draw it between my own lips—softly, no teeth or tongue—and I just kiss Jared with a press of emotion. I move my mouth up, connect both of our lips, and again let him ease into this connection.

I’m dying for him to kiss me back.

Dying.

And he isn’t. Or can’t.

And so I plant soft kisses on his mouth, just a few, just enough. I feel his pulse race in his neck and I know I’m having a powerful effect on him. His hips rock beneath me.

Maybe this is too much. I got what I wanted—I broke through his wall, at least a little. And so I leave his mouth, pull his face against my neck, and rock my hips in a rhythm that says go. I rock with him as I feel him get closer to the edge, ready for his climax.

When he comes, he comes hard and long and in great gasping bursts. His teeth sink deep into my shoulder and I’m breathless from the pain. I’m spinning with the intensity of his climax and I feel his body curl around me, like he needs to pull me inside his chest.

Like he needs me to be part of him.

Like I need him.





Chapter Thirty-Four





“Where is he?”

Jared’s face is ashen, his phone pressed to his ear. Early dawn light tells me we’ve slept a few hours at least, but already Jared is in motion: out of bed, into the living room, returning fully dressed as he clicks off his phone.

“It’s Conover. He’s in the hospital.”

I bolt up in bed. “What happened?”

“We don’t know yet. Maybe a stroke. He passed out between his car and his front door.”

I jump up, reach for my robe. “What can I do?”

“Nothing. Stay here, Grace. I’m going to try to make the next flight.”

I follow him back to the living room where he sweeps his laptop and papers into his bag, stuffs his tie inside it, and shoves his arms into the jacket lying rumpled on my floor.

“Jared—” I take two steps toward him but his posture is warning. I can’t kiss him goodbye, even though I want to. Desperately. So I settle for a quick embrace, feel the brush of his stubble by my cheek, and he’s gone.





***





“I thought you were out until noon?” Trey greets me as I enter my office.

He’s on his first coffee. I let it slide. “Change of plans.”

He narrows his eyes, inspecting me, but my suit is fresh, my long curls tamed, and there’s nothing to suggest my hasty exit from his apartment last night was anything scandalous except my sleep-deprived puffy eyes.

“So your calendar I cleared for Mr. Bouquet?”

“Fill it back up.”

I take a seat at my desk and scan Internet headlines across several news sites. Nothing about Conover yet. It’s only been two hours since Jared got the call. I’ll give them ’til noon.

“You’ve got Darrow in ten,” Trey calls from the outer office.

“Which one?”

“Lauren.”

Lauren Darrow breezes into my office precisely on time, looking like a queen visiting an orphanage. I direct her to sit in the chair facing my desk and she offers a tight smile, as if I’ve asked her to sit on an overturned bucket.

Get over it. I’m in a government building with government-issued furniture, so I can’t expect my office to live up to her fabulous taste that’s become legend in home decorating magazines.

“Thanks for meeting with me today—Trey said you had a last-minute cancellation?”

I smile without parting my lips, refusing to go into the details.

“I’m sure you know about Senator Conover’s unfortunate ailment,” she begins.

I force my face into a mask of polite interest. “Oh?”