You’re not a talented a liar, either, a voice in her head whispered. She shut her eyes against it.
“And,” she went on, “despite what happened earlier, I’m not a casual sex person.”
Jack said nothing for the longest minute. He simply stared, as if trying to decipher her every thought. He didn’t touch her. He just stared—hard, hot, as if he was picturing and plotting to do every wicked thing to her she’d ever imagined. The explosive desire on his face ripped past her defenses, searing her clear to her unruly imagination, to her throbbing clit still so hungry for him, to the inexplicable draw she felt in her soul to him.
Damn it, she had to get away from him, now. Morgan wrapped the robe’s lapels tightly around herself and started to rise.
He clamped a hand around her arm, holding her in place. “Those are the only reasons? You’re not into casual and you’re going to keep lying to yourself that you don’t like the way I f**k you?”
“I want you to stop saying such outrageous crap and agree to keep our interaction professional.”
“You want me to promise not to touch you?” His grip tightened on her arm.
“I’ve been saying that, yes.”
Chin high, eyes declaring her resolve, Morgan hoped she looked convincing. She hoped that Jack had no idea that inside, her heart threatened to beat out of her chest. That his nearness, scent, and touch just brought back the rush of pleasure and exhilaration she felt when he’d been deep inside her.
“You’ve been saying it; I just don’t believe it.” Jack laughed, an ironic chuckle, complete with a mocking smile. “What are you afraid of, cher? If I don’t excite you, then, when I touch you, say no. If you’re not interested, that shouldn’t be too hard.”
“I shouldn’t have to!” Morgan gaped. “You’re pissing me off. Can’t you just be a gentleman and agree?”
“With chemistry like ours, no. Even if I wanted to keep my hands off you, which I don’t, it would only be a matter of time before I was balls deep inside you, pounding away.”
“Stop, damn it! That’s not true. I don’t say yes to every man who snaps his fingers.”
He slid his palm up her arm, to her shoulder, then diverted to her breast. His thumb encountered a hard nipple and flicked it, as if to make a point. She gasped, then bit her lip as she realized her huge error. Jack gave her a long, wicked smile—the kind that only made her more wet. Between that and his touch, he turned her on as easily as he flipped on a light switch. The hard pulse between her thighs was something she couldn’t ignore.
“Sure it is. The street is going both ways, here. I can tell,” he said. “As I see it, my job is keeping you safe. But I’m going to show you what your body craves and help you be honest with yourself. That,” he caressed the hard point of her breast again, “is my pleasure.”
Then he released her and rose, gumbo bowl in hand.
“Maybe you’re lying to yourself about what I want,” she blurted to his retreating back. “Did you ever think of that? Maybe you’re totally off base.”
Jack paused, turned, and pinned her with a blunt stare that made her heart stop. “If that was the case, you wouldn’t be wet enough for me to smell, and I wouldn’t know that you’d soaked two thongs in one day.”
Hazy morning. Sunlight slanted across the swamp in lazy golden rays to settle on his porch, illuminating the small figure of a woman’s fiery tresses as they cascaded down her narrow back, covered by a man’s dark shirt. His shirt.
Contentment and yearning. Hope and need. And lust. It all hit him as she tilted her head. A corner of her mouth hinted at a smile. Happy. He wanted to see her happy, protected.
He’d never loved anyone so much in his life.
The woman, a mystery, was his. Jack knew that as well as he knew his own name.
Just once he wanted to see her face. After six months of futile dreaming and waking up hard with no relief in sight, of feeling this yearning for a woman he’d never seen, he needed to know who she was.
Turn around! he silently demanded.
Slowly, so damn slowly, she began to turn his way. A delicate ear, a graceful neck, a stubborn slope to her jaw, fair skin like porcelain. That was more than he’d ever seen of this woman, but the greedy part of him wanted more bared to his gaze. He wanted everything. She kept turning. A hint of apple in her cheek…
Jack jolted awake. Damn it! So close this time. So close…but he still couldn’t see her face.
Stirring from a fitful sleep on the sofa, Jack opened his eyes and glanced at his watch. Just after midnight. Now what?
He laid back on the couch, breathing hard, gritting his teeth against a steel-inspired erection that always followed the dream. The f**king thing tormented him more frequently these days— nearly every night for the past two weeks. Why?
Certainly his grandfather and the old man’s crazy theories about soul mates and dreaming of destined lovers was all bullshit. It had to be. If there was any such thing as a woman destined to be his, he wouldn’t torture himself with a dream. He’d simply find her and claim her. And prove she was just another woman he could walk away from. End of story.
Jack was perfectly happy with that explanation except…why did the woman in his dream have the same hair as Morgan if the dream was irrelevant? Why did Morgan feel like more than the means to his revenge when he touched her?