The Dangerous Jacob Wilde

“Admit it.”

Oh, the feel of him against her. All that hard, lean muscle …

“Admit what?” she said breathlessly.

“Admit this was better than nice.”

“Maybe,” she said, teasing him back.

“Maybe, the woman says.” He shifted a little. She bit back a moan. He was becoming aroused. She could feel him against her belly.

“Lots better than nice,” he said in a low, sexy whisper.

She wanted to say something clever, but all she could manage was a soft moan.

He kissed her mouth. She returned the kiss.

He moved. She did, too.

The engorged head of his erection was between her thighs. It brushed against her sensitized flesh.

“Please,” she said.

“Please, what?” he said, and then he was inside her, moving inside her, and the world tilted and spun away.

This time, after he withdrew, he wrapped them both in the duvet.

Then he drew her into the warm shelter of his arms and kissed her temple.

“Sleep,” he said softly.

She couldn’t. She was lying on her right side, and she never—she never—

When she woke, there were long shadows in the room, and a fire leaping in the hearth.

Jake, wearing only his jeans, squatted beside it, feeding wood to the flames.

Addison sat up, the duvet clutched to her chin.

He looked around, smiled when he saw her.

“Hey,” he said softly.

She shoved her hair back from her face.

“What time—” Her voice was hoarse. She cleared her throat, started again. “What time is it?”

He looked at his watch.

“Almost five.”

Her eyes widened. “Almost …”

Jake rose. His beauty made her heartbeat quicken. His skin was tanned, his muscles the kind a man got from hard work, not from a gym. His jeans were zipped but unbuttoned; she couldn’t keep her gaze from going to the arrow of dark, silky hair that disappeared behind his fly.

“Don’t tell me,” he said, as he came slowly toward her. “You have an appointment with a can of paint.”

“A can of …” She laughed. “You can still smell it.”