The Dare Collection: April 2018. Stefanie London
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cooked him breakfast. Perhaps she’d overstepped the mark. Outstayed her welcome. Perhaps morning-after chat should be limited to I’ll call you.
But he’d fallen asleep spooning her. He hadn’t suggested she leave and his body was certainly up for round two. Perhaps breakfast had been a step too far. Too couply.
She shrugged. ‘I should have asked.’ She reached for the T-shirt, her high dissipating.
He gripped her arm, stilling her retreat.
‘No. It’s fine. Thank you. I just...’
Whatever he’d been about to say, he stopped, kissing her instead. Her mind grew hazy under the constant stroking of his thumbs over her nipples.
Forcing her thoughts from his confusing reaction to pancakes, which was only destined to destroy her burgeoning orgasm, she gripped his cock, using her own moisture to lubricate the glide of her hand along his length. He groaned, rolling them so she no longer straddled him but lay sprawled beneath him, thighs open. Wet and ready.
His hips stilled. He stared down, his eyes so close, the brilliant blue hazed out of focus. His mouth met hers with the barest of whispers. He swept the hair from her face with a tender touch, both hands lingering in her hair. She stilled beneath him, pancakes and even orgasms forgotten as she got lost in his eyes. Lost in this precipice of a moment.
Emotion trapped in her chest, pushing aside vital organs to make room for the unnamed feelings springing up. Did he feel it too?
A ringtone killed the anticipation. Harley railed between heart-thudding relief and skin-crawling frustration.
Jack scanned the nightstand, his body tense. He flicked apologetic eyes back to her, one hand raking his hair until it stood up on end in all directions.
‘It’s my personal cell. Only a few people have the number.’ He softened against her belly but still covered her, pressing her into the mattress.
‘Of course. You should get it.’ She made to slide from under him but he held her firm, his mouth covering hers again while his hand patted the nightstand until he located and silenced his phone. He pulled his mouth from hers with a sigh, lifting the device to his ear.
‘Yes?’
His face changed from mild frustration to relaxed and happy and then he spoke in rapid-fire French she had no hope of following, even if her command of the language stretched beyond the few sex words Jack had taught her. Not that she’d really been listening, too caught up in his sexy mouth and its power to send her shooting to the stars.
Harley let her hands explore his sublime body, tracing his shoulders and back and then fingering the silvery scar on his elbow where he’d broken his arm ski boarding aged sixteen and had required surgery.
He smiled, his eyes following the path of her fingers, and then kissed her, his conversation continuing between chaste presses of his mouth to hers, her neck, even her fingertips.
And then he stilled. His relaxed and happy expression morphed into a small frown but then his French became more animated, punctuated with laughter.
A twinge settled under her ribs, a slow burn that burrowed deep. Who had put that look on his face? What made him so animated? She knew so little about his life now. Aside from his work, his sexual skills and penchant for bilingual dirty talk.
Harley tried to escape again, to offer him a modicum of privacy to finish his call. His arm tightened around her waist, and he pressed his lips to hers once more, stilling her retreat.
Harley made out a female voice on the other end of the conversation. She breathed deep, trying to still the thrum of her pulse in her head and rein in her wildly spinning imagination. He must have sensed the tension she held in her body because he pulled away, his brows dipped as he peppered her lips with kisses, presumably waiting for a break in the conversation.
With his stare fixed on Harley, he said, ‘Chérie, I’m not alone. Can I call you back?’
The response came in French and he ended the call, tossing the phone back onto the nightstand and returning his undivided attention to Harley. ‘I’m sorry.’ A soft kiss. ‘That was rude of me.’
Harley wriggled again, desperate now to dress in last night’s ball gown and call her driver. To get out of here and take her confusion and her confessions with her.
‘No problem. I need to leave anyway.’
He let her wriggle free, a small frown crinkling his brow.
She’d just made it to the edge of the bed in a sitting position when his arm scooped her waist, first hauling her back against his hard chest and then tumbling her back under him.
He was fully hard again against her thigh. His mouth swallowed her gasp and any objections. When the slow, thorough kiss ended he reared back to pin her with an open and sincere look.
‘Isabel. You remember my little sister. She got married this summer.’
She nodded, recalling the girl who looked like a female version of Jack.
His mouth tensed, the playfulness draining away as he absently stroked her collarbone.
‘You don’t approve?’
He frowned. ‘It’s not that.’ He rolled onto his back, resting his clasped hands under his head.
Harley slipped the T-shirt back on and retrieved the tray from the dresser. If Jack was anything like Ash, he’d be more communicative well-fed. She placed the tray on the bed, and he smiled, sitting up to take one fork and offer her the other. Half a pancake in, he found his voice.
‘She wanted to let me know I’m going to be an uncle.’ He studied the plate, his fork hovering.
‘And that makes you frown?’
A small snort and a shake of his head. When he looked at her, his eyes blazed. ‘I just worry... She seems so happy, but...’
Harley fought the urge to squirm. What was going through his mind? Perhaps if she kept still he’d offer more of an insight.
The prongs of his fork prodded at a blueberry. ‘It’s all bullshit, don’t you think?’
She held her breath, her gaze dipping to the half-eaten pancakes. ‘What do you mean?’
He sighed, his fork clattering on the plate. ‘Relationships. It’s bad enough risking it for yourself, but to bring a child into the mix...’ He ruffled his hair and jumped from the bed, all pent-up energy. Stalking to the dresser, he located a pair of cotton boxers, tugging them up his thighs with brisk, almost angry movements.
Harley mashed her lips together, her mind racing and her appetite forgotten. She agreed with him. Discovering her father’s affair, the devastation of everything she’d known, and the subsequent mockery he’d made of his marriage afterwards had solidified her stance on love.
And in her brutally honest moments, she could admit her initial feelings for Phil, a man she’d been engaged to, had been more about fitting into a Hal-determined mould than any real feelings.
But Jack had been hurt. By her ending their childish, teenage infatuation, or something else? Unease lifted her shoulders.
‘But she’s happy?’ Her eyes slid to a family photo she’d spied on the dresser, all four of the Lanes smile-laughing at the camera, captured in an unguarded moment, young Isabel’s smile the biggest.
Jack snorted, his tense back to her while he rifled through his drawers.
‘She’s delirious. But marriage is like that—dreamy one minute, disintegrating the next. I mean, look at my parents. I would have thought Isabel would have learned something from them.’
‘Your parents divorced?’ The few mouthfuls of pancake settled in her stomach like concrete. She’d always liked the Lanes. Jack’s parents had always been nice to her, and Isabel, two years younger, had emulated a seventeen-year-old Harley, not that