Read Online Jack & Jilted by Cathy Yardley - Free Book Online

change her mind. Even as a tiny voice in the back of her head shouted that this was crazy, stupid, probably the most idiotic thing she’d ever done, she realized that she was going through with it—that there was no way she was backing out now.
    He pulled away, staring at her as if she were the only woman on earth, and for a second it made her pause before tugging at the sash of her robe. Beneath, she wore a simple spaghetti-string silk nightie in a deep, almost rust-colored garnet-red, cut high on her thighs but otherwise devoid of any lace or frills. She wondered absently if maybe she shouldn’t have chosen something sexier, but the expression he made when he saw it caused shivers to shoot up her spine. She rolled awkwardly, pushing the robe off the bed and onto the floor.
    He was wearing a T-shirt and a pair of jeans—his usual attire—and he stripped the T-shirt over his head with one casual motion, revealing a body that made her body tighten in response. The guy had the most beautiful chest she’d ever seen—chiseled and muscular, no doubt from all the labor required to keep a ship like this running. His arms and shoulders were yoked, his abdomen flat and rippled into a six-pack. She wanted to smooth her palms over every square inch of him. She wanted to lick him.
    She could not remember the last time she felt like this, if ever.
    He put his hands on the buttons of his fly and then he paused, staring at her, the top button undone. She waited, breathless, to see what was revealed—only to see that he was again waiting for her to somehow reassure him that this was, indeed, what she wanted to do.
    It would’ve been easier if he had taken the lead, she realized. She’d never really been a sexual aggressor, and to be honest, if he would just charge forward and make love to her, she could always assuage her conscience the next morning by saying things had gone too fast and he’d simply outmaneuvered her. But she wasn’t a victim, as she’d told him that morning—this was going to be her decision, and she was going to live with it. So she sat up on the bed and, with hands only slightly trembling, took the denim in her own hands, nerves making her hands slow down as she undid each metal button. He groaned, leaning against the backs of her fingertips, and she could feel the cotton of boxers and the heat of his skin.
    Suddenly nerves burned away in a flash pulse of pure desire. She tugged at his waistband, and he helped her, shucking out of his jeans, socks and shoes and then shrugged out of his boxers, as well. His erection was magnificent, hard and long, jutting toward her. Shocked at her own boldness, she circled it with her fingers, smoothing her palm from the base to the tip with a steady confidence that elicited a surprised moan in response from him. She released him only long enough to tug the nightgown over her head, leaving only the matching garnet thong between them.
    “I want you,” she panted. “Now.”
    He slid next to her on the bed, reaching for her, kissing her ravenously. And his kisses—good God, the man was an artist. What he could do with his lips alone was mind-blowing. She clung to him, molding her body to his as his mouth plundered hers. She could feel her breasts crushing against that rock-hard chest of his, and the smooth, fevered flesh of his cock pressed against her thighs, causing her to go damp in a second. His fingers dug into the skin at her hips, pulling her even closer. She tore her mouth away to get a breath, to somehow get her bearings, but he chose to inch lower instead, kissing her throat, then lapping at each nipple until she was moaning, almost crying with need.
    This was what I wanted, was her last coherent thought. This was what I needed!
    His fingers moved down to her thong, pushing the scrap of silk out of the way before penetrating her wet curls. She closed her eyes, biting her lip against the overwhelming sensation of him pressing slowly into her, first one finger, then