If It's Only Love (Boys of Jackson Harbor 6)

“Bullshit. But maybe first you want me to track down that fucker you’re sleeping with—the one who you’re fine to let ‘see other people’? I could throw my weight around a little. He’d probably leave you alone just so he doesn’t have to deal with me.” I drag my nose along her cheek until my mouth is at her ear. “Then you wouldn’t have to tell him that you don’t want him. You wouldn’t ever have to admit that even after all these years, even after all the shit fate threw at us and all the mistakes I made, you still want me more than you’ll ever want him.”

She swallows, and when she draws in a breath, I think she’s going to deny it. But she doesn’t say a word. Her only response is sliding a hand up to cup the back of my neck. Fuck yes.

“I’m not going to do that for you.” It takes every drop of my will to force myself to step back. “I want you to talk to me. I want you to scream at me for every shitty decision I ever made. Then I want you to kiss me and tell me I get another chance. I want you to break it off with that douchebag completely and be with me, but I’m not going to do it for you.” I take another step toward the door. “You’re going to have to make the choice yourself.”

My hand’s on the knob when she says, “East. Stop.”

I turn back to her, just like she knew I would, and she’s right there. She pushes me against the door with flat palms to my chest. Then she has a hand in my hair and is tugging my mouth down to hers. And the taste of her . . . Fuck. She’s better than I remembered, and as soon as those lips part under mine, I’m all in—kissing her with more intensity than I’ve ever kissed anyone.

Our mouths are eager, desperate, nipping and stroking. This isn’t making love with our mouths. If there’s a kissing equivalent to fucking, this is it. Her hands tangle and tug in my hair and she presses herself against me like she’s trying to mold us together permanently.

But I’m too damn tall and I need her closer. I grip her behind her thighs and hoist her up. I spin to press her against the door, and she hooks her feet behind my back, locking us into place, right where we match. She rocks into me, and Christ. So good. Her body. Her hands. Her mouth. Everything. All over.

I know what she’s saying. It didn’t end for her either. She feels something when I’m close. Despite my mistakes, she’s never stopped wanting me.

Clinging to my self-control, I try to slow the pace, stroking a hand up her side, caressing the curve of her breast with my thumb. She tugs harder at my hair and bites my bottom lip until it stings. I’ll give her whatever she wants. This girl could ask me to bleed out, and I’d be helpless to deny her. In seconds, my rhythm matches hers. I’m wild, frantic. I’m terrified she’ll walk away again.

I pinch her nipple through her bra and greedily swallow the sound of her moan. She rubs against me, as desperate as I am for connection. When her hand comes down between our bodies and she unbuttons my pants, I groan. “Shay. Fuck. Slow down.” Her hand’s in my pants, stroking me, squeezing me.

“Condom,” she says.

I pull away and shake my head. I don’t have one. “Sorry. I wasn’t prepared for this.” But it’s better, right? We need to slow down. To put on the brakes for a second and fucking talk about what’s happening right now.

“Top drawer.” She nods to the desk.

I don’t want to let her go, but I know what she’s saying—condoms, in there. “Good to know.” I trail an open mouth down her neck. I’m so proud of myself. It’s taking superhuman strength of will to ignore the fact that there are condoms a couple of yards away. I could be suited up and inside her in less than a minute. Instead, I stroke the nipple I just pinched and slowly lick the column of her neck. “You’re as sweet as I remember,” I say, but I want to sample every inch, just to be sure.

A frustrated growl tears out of her. “Condom,” she repeats.

“Shay . . .”

She untangles herself from me, dropping her feet to the floor and pushing me away.

I drag a hand through my hair and try to catch my breath—try to think one clear thought that doesn’t involve taste, suck, fuck—but she’s opened a desk drawer and pulled out a condom, and I’m a goner.

She holds my gaze as she inches a hand under her dress and pulls down her panties. They’re black, lacy, and hot as hell, but they have nothing on her. She saunters back to me, a spark of challenge in her dark eyes. I’m a desperate fool, because when she frees my cock from my underwear, I can only watch, dumbstruck and entranced, as she rolls the latex over me.