Private Property (Rochester Trilogy 1)

He shakes his head, a ghost of a smile still on his lips. “You make me insane, you know that? You make me want impossible things.”

“Like what?” I’m already breathless. It’s too tempting. He’s too tempting.

“I want you, Jane.”

Noah’s words echo in my head. “You have me.”

It’s true. Doesn’t matter whether I want to belong to Beau Rochester. My heart made the decision a long time ago. My body, too. I wasn’t consulted about the matter.

He frowns. “Then why do you look like someone died?”

“Will you come to me?”

His nostrils flare. “For what?” he asks, his voice low and gravelly. He knows exactly what I’m asking for, but he wants to make me say it. He’ll probably make me beg before this is over. He’ll have me on my knees, and worst of all, I’ll want more.

My gaze meets his. “For number five.”

His eyes darken. “Tonight?”

“Tonight.” I want this to happen because I’m asking for it. I want this to happen in my own room. He already controls too much in our relationship.

“After I put Paige down for bed.”

I leave the room, very aware that he’s watching me go. Part of me wishes I’d worn something nicer than this pair of jeans and slouchy sweater, but the heat emanating from him leaves no question as to his thoughts.

Paige needs a bath. And a glass of water.

And bedtime stories.

I have a few hours to wait. I spend them taking a long shower. Shave. Moisturize. Everything more meaningful than anytime I’ve done it before, because Beau will see me like this. He’ll touch me like this. The other times we’ve touched have been unplanned. This is different. This is my decision, start to finish. It’s at once empowering and terrifying.

I stand near the bed, feeling nervous as hell.

Why did I make that offer? It’s true that I want to sleep with him.

But I’m afraid. Afraid of what he’ll think of me after. Afraid of what I’ll think of myself. Afraid of the phantom memories who haunt this house. I’m so tired of being afraid.

“Jane.”

I whirl and face him. He’s standing in the doorframe, holding on to the top. It pulls his sweater up, revealing a small stretch of taut abs. My gaze soaks it in. I want him.

And it feels good, this wanting.

When I meet his eyes again, he has a knowing look. This is a man who knows his value. Who knows his worth. Who knows how to please a woman.

“I’m glad you’re my first,” I say impulsively, and he freezes.

“Excuse me?”

“I thought—” I stammer. “I thought you knew I was a virgin.”

He takes his time walking into the room, closing the door, and locking it. That seems promising, at least. He hasn’t left. “I wondered, though I couldn’t be sure. Some girls have sex but they don’t give a blowjob.”

“Oh no, I meant I hadn’t done either of them before.”

He drags me against his body. “You’re shaking.”

I let out an uneven breath. “I’m nervous.”

“Do you think I’m going to hurt you?”

“No.” Not the way he means. Not with his body. He has a massive amount of strength in those arms and abs and legs, but he would never use them against me. I trust him that much, but I know better than to trust him with my heart. Or do I?

He leans down to press a kiss to my forehead. “Then what?”

I’m nervous for a thousand reasons. It’s hard to distill it into words. “That I won’t be enough for you. You’ve been with models and actresses and—”

“God, Jane. Feel how much I want you.” Both of his hands grasp my ass. He pulls me hard against him, our bodies flush, his erection painfully thick.

The shock of it, the intimacy of it, makes me gasp. “Not Zoey?”

A rueful laugh. “I deserve that. Not Zoey.”

Not Emily? I don’t have the courage to ask that question.

He captures my mouth, one hand holding my jaw, the other still holding my ass. His lips are warm and soft and probing. It’s a question, this kiss. He’s asking whether I really want this. Whether I’m sure. And I love that he’s taking time to find out.

I answer with my own version of a kiss—mine demanding and certain.

He grunts in response.

The masculine sound of pleasure makes my thighs clench together.

“Do you have a condom?” Seven out of ten girls who age out of the foster care system will become pregnant before the age of twenty-one. I’m not going to let that happen, no matter how lost in him I get.

“Of course,” he says, walking me back toward the bed. His hands explore me beneath my sweater, and my nipples become hard. He tugs the thick fabric off me, and cool air breathes across my skin. I suck in a breath, nervous now that he’s seeing me fully naked.