There’s Wild, Then There’s You (The Wild Ones #3)(49)
Author: M. Leighton

His voice is low. When I look up at him, his eyes are dark and heavy.

“Jet, I—”

“Don’t ever sell yourself short, Violet. Any man would die to have this just once.”

He rolls my nipple between his fingers. I hold my breath, willing my body not to respond, wishing I could just disappear.

“You weren’t fighting it earlier. Don’t start now,” he says, bringing the tip of one of his fingers to his lips, wetting it with his tongue, then drawing a damp circle around my other nipple with it. “There is nothing sexier than a woman who just lets go. Watching your reaction, knowing how much you like what I’m doing to you is the most intoxicating thing in the world.” Jet leans in to whisper in my ear. “Don’t fight it, Violet. Don’t fight me.”

He skims his lips along my jaw, bending to press them to my throat before dropping to his knees in front of me.

“This is beautiful,” he murmurs, tweaking one nipple and making it furl into an even tighter bud. “God, that makes me ravenous. For you, Violet. Just you.”

In his eyes, I see the truth of his words. And in my body, I feel them. I can’t fight him. Because I don’t want to. I stopped wanting to a long time ago. I just never admitted it to myself.

“Let me have it, baby,” he says, leaning forward to trace one aching peak with the tip of his tongue. “Let me have it all.”

When he draws my nipple into his mouth, his eyes still holding mine, I know it’s pointless to fight it. Whatever is between us, however we arrived here, it’s consuming. And I want to be consumed.

Jet lets one hand slide down my stomach to the increasing ache between my legs. I feel him slide a finger down my crease and back up again to massage my most sensitive part. Air sticks in my chest. Time stops on the movement of his hand. When he pushes that finger into me, I exhale a shaky breath. Jet closes his eyes, groaning as he lets my nipple pop out of his mouth. “That’s it, baby. Just let go.”

So I do.

* * *

My head is filled with junk on the trip home. After a night, morning, and part of the afternoon full of the most fulfilling, creative lovemaking I’ve ever heard of, I thought I would feel more . . . connected. And I did. Right up until a few minutes before we left.

I glance over at Jet again, still mourning the loss of what we had in New Orleans. “Is everything all right?” I ask for the thousandth time.

And for the thousandth time, he replies, “Of course.”

There have been variations to the dialogue—yep, everything is fine, why wouldn’t it be—but essentially both the question and the response have been the same. Yet, my feelings of unease are only getting worse.

I want to ask him specifics, but I’m afraid to. I’ve searched every corner of my mind trying to figure out what happened. Whatever it was, it had to have happened right before we left, but I just can’t think of what that might’ve been.

I think back, once more, looking for the trigger.

After having some marathon sex followed by a very late breakfast, I decided to take a shower, the first half of which was deliciously interrupted by Jet. It was when I got out that I noticed he just seemed . . . off. I asked him then if something was wrong. He denied it with a faint smile and a kiss to my forehead.

My forehead.

I wondered if it was because he hadn’t heard from the guys with Kick Records, but I didn’t want to bring it up in case it made things worse. So here we are. Hours later, and I’ve made zero progress on discerning what is wrong. I just know that something is.

I don’t want to pry when he seems reluctant to tell me what’s going on. And I don’t want to push, because I feel like I’d be digging my own grave if he’s feeling a relapse of hurt or aggravation over my deception.

So, in the absence of pushing him, I just keep asking. And he just keeps denying.

“Are you hungry?” he asks when it’s close to suppertime.

I shrug, food not the least bit appealing since my emotions are so up in the air. “If you want to stop, that’s fine. I can do whatever,” I answer agreeably.

Jet’s quiet for a few seconds before he declares, “Let’s just drive on through. I’m anxious to get home.”

I give him the brightest smile that I can, which isn’t very bright at all, I’m sure. I turn to look out the window, wishing now that this uncomfortable ride could just be over. I need time to feel in private. I suspect that there might even be tears in my future.

By the time the headlights of Jet’s car are illuminating the signs for Summerton, I’m emotionally exhausted. I’ve known a lot of people who have gotten inside their own heads and turned completely manageable situations into train wrecks, so I know the danger of thinking too much, in overanalyzing. But I’ve never been prone to doing it. I’ve always been able to let things go, just put them out of my mind until they can be resolved in a pragmatic way.

Until now. Until Jet. Until I came face-to-face with my one weakness. And now it’s tearing me apart, turning me into the very kind of person I’ve secretly abhorred all this time.

Maybe this is just desserts. Maybe this is what I get for looking down my nose at people who can’t control themselves. Maybe this is life’s way of making me better able to relate to my clients, my friends, my family. I’m getting a little taste of what it feels like to want something so much it hurts, to obsess about it and not be able to stop. And to feel the agony of having it slip right through my fingers, to feel the frustration of driving myself crazy trying to figure out what went wrong and how to go back.

I relax my head against the seat, trying to clear my mind and lose myself in the melancholy notes of the song on the radio. But that doesn’t help. It seems only to underscore my misery, making it feel nearly unbearable.

Jet’s phone rings and I’m grateful for the interruption. The tension in the car is driving me bonkers.

I only hear Jet’s end of the conversation, but I can still make out the gist of the call.

“Hey, man, what’s up?”

“Yeah, I’ll tell you all about it.”

“On my way back now. Why?”

“Nah, my schedule’s clear Wednesday. Where is it?”

“Is that the club right down from Brass?”

“Yeah, yeah. I know the place. So what time? Seven?”

“Cool. Let’s get together sometime tomorrow. I wanna practice something new to add to the first set.”