The Dangerous Jacob Wilde

“Whipped cream and you,” Jake answered, his words low and gruff. “Your mouth. Your breasts. Your thighs.”

Addison rose on her toes and planted a quick kiss on his lips.

“Deal,” she whispered, “just as long as we save some of that whipped cream for me to use on you.”

He groaned. She laughed. And before he could push her back against the refrigerator door and show her that they didn’t need whipped cream at all, she slipped out of his encircling arms and headed out of the kitchen, her hips swaying with what he knew was deliberate, teasing provocation.

He laughed….

But then his laughter died.

In its place was a sensation he’d never felt before. He wanted to go after her, scoop her into his arms and make love to her, sure.

But he wanted more.

More than taking her to bed.

He wanted her in his heart, in his life….

You? a cold voice inside him said. Don’t be stupid, man.

“Come on, slowpoke. Get your shirt … Jake?”

He blinked. She was waiting for him just outside the kitchen. She had a sweater over her arm.

“Hey,” she said softly. “What’s the matter?”

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

“You sure? Seriously, I can scramble some eggs if you don’t want to—”

He was beside her in a heartbeat; she was in his arms in less than that and when he kissed her, the kiss was so deep, so intense, that she let the sweater fall to the floor so she could cling to him for support.

Something was wrong. She knew it. And she could only hope that he would tell her what it was because whatever it took, she’d help him.

How would a woman not help a man once she realized she was falling in love with him?

It turned out, he couldn’t wear his shirt.

“No buttons,” he said, and gave her a solemn look. “People see me wearing a shirt without buttons, they’ll know you tore them off.”

That rated another blush.

Thankfully, old man Chambers had not been one to toss things out. The ancient equipment in some of the outbuildings, the sagging furniture and antique appliances in the house, were testament to his frugality.

The jeans and workshirts Jake had years ago left, in the closet in what the old man had called the hired hand’s room, were still there.

The jeans were threadbare but a couple of the shirts were usable. He retrieved a blue one. It was too tight but that was the least of his worries.

The real problem was trying to figure out what was going on with him.

They were on the way to breakfast, and he was driving like a man possessed. The speedometer needle hit ninety and kept on going. He always drove fast but tonight—

Tonight, he wished the car was a small, sleek jet that could carry them high above the clouds.

He needed to feel the world fall away below him.

What the hell had happened back in that kitchen? One minute they’d been laughing, teasing each other with memories of the long day they’d spent in bed, anticipating the hours still ahead, and then, all of a sudden, sex hadn’t been enough.