How to Date the Guy You Hate by Julie Kriss Page 0,55

was turned on—still—and vulnerable and safe and free. I was wicked and pure. I was ready for anything.

I let my hands drop to his hips and confessed, “I want to do that again.”

He groaned against my neck. I could smell clean sweat and sex and the tang of his skin. “My cock worships you right now,” he said.

My breath stopped for a second. I pulled him closer, letting my naked skin brush his clothes. My belly against his shirt buttons. My thighs against his pants. I rested my cheek against his collar and closed my eyes. He had given me so much pleasure, any kind I wanted. I liked that I’d done the same for him. I was about to undo his pants again, taking apart all of my careful cleanup work, when from outside the window the band started playing, a classical waltz, and there was a smattering of applause.

“Damn,” Jason said, lifting his head from my neck. “The reception. Someone’s going to notice.”

I looked down between us, at the bra and shoes that were the only things I was wearing. “Do you think I’m dressed okay?”

He laughed, a vibration in his chest against mine, and cupped my bare ass. “I think you’re dressed nice.”

“I’ll bet you do,” I said, grinning.

“Then again, I take it back.” He kissed me below my ear and ran his hands up to my lower back. “I’m the only one who gets to see you like this.”

Something inside me went still, waiting. Balanced on the edge.

“You know what I realized?” Jason said, his fingers running along the dip of my spine, his breath on my neck. “I realized that for the last four years, I’ve been with the wrong woman.”

My chest squeezed. My breath came short. I put my palms on his chest, but I didn’t push him away. Not this second. I couldn’t.

“Have you ever thought that?” he asked. He lifted a hand and stroked my jawline gently, his voice thoughtful. “If I’d remembered what happened that night… Just that one thing. If I’d remembered, it would have been you and me ever since.”

I made a strangled sound in my throat. “Jason.” I pressed my palms against him, and he lifted his head, looking me in the eye.

“What?” he said.

“I have to get dressed.” Panic made me push harder, and when he stepped back I found my panties on the floor and pulled them on. No. No. The feeling of intimacy, of sexy-siren power, was gone, and there was only fear in its place. I grabbed my dress and sorted through the folds of satin so I could put it back on. I kept my eyes down and didn’t look at him. I couldn’t.

His voice was low. “Megan.”

“I’m not doing this.” I forced the words out as I stepped into the dress and pulled it up. “I’m not.”

“Doing what?”

“Whatever it is that you want.” I motioned between us. “This.” I managed to raise my eyes to his throat, but no higher. Even the sight of his white dress shirt, the knot of his tie, made my chest hurt. I glimpsed his mouth, pressed softly in unhappy confusion, and had to look away again, yanking at the zipper of the dress and grabbing the belt from the floor. “All this talk about serious stuff. About us.”

“Look,” he said. “Don’t worry. After we get back, we can—”

“We’re not doing anything after we get back.” I looked up again, making myself look into his handsome face. Something inside me cracked painfully, so hard I could almost hear it. “Don’t you see?”

He was watching me from those deep brown eyes below their slashes of brows, something flickering in the depths of his gaze. Uncertainty, perhaps. Hurt. “No, he said softly, with a note of coolness. “I don’t see.”

That note of coolness made it easier. “Jason, I’m not doing this,” I said. “It’s just a stupid wedding. A bad idea in the first place. But that’s all it is.” I motioned to the window, where the sounds of the orchestra came through. “It’s a favor. One weekend. Some sex. A blow job. That’s all.”

The room fell quiet. Jason went very, very still.

I could hear my own breathing, harsh and rasping.

We’re not anything.

We can’t be anything.

I couldn’t be anything with Jason, because something with Jason would inevitably be something big. Something that would matter. I would screw it up. I had no practice with a man like him, nothing he could want, no kind of life, maybe no life