Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 108165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
I bite my trembling lip for several seconds. “The guilt of being alive,” I whisper.
Jack turns his head, eyeing me over his shoulder.
“He bought the notecards and Sharpies that I dropped on the floor and added a tissue box. Then he walked me to my car, but I was still shaking with grief. So he drove me home. He wasn’t the most handsome man in the world. And he hadn’t said more than a few words to me. But he had kind eyes and an even kinder touch. I kissed him. And I didn’t want to know his name. I didn’t care if he said a word to me. Several hours later, I woke up alone in my bed. Yet … I didn’t feel alone. I felt like my brother had a hand in ensuring I found the right people in my life when I needed them most.”
“The dean’s husband?” Jack asks.
I smile, wiping my cheeks. “Yes.”
He narrows his eyes. “Do you think your brother is the reason our paths crossed?”
I shrug.
Jack’s contemplative gaze drifts to the side.
“But I find myself in new territory,” I say. “I want more.”
His gaze returns to me with the obvious question on his face.
“But I’m afraid to ask your real name. I’m afraid to ask how your wife died. I’m afraid to ask why you’re planning on killing Archer Sanford. Because I’ve never been invested in someone who doesn’t have a familial obligation to love me back. I’ve always felt like needing someone means I am not enough. I am less.”
I crawl toward him, trudging my way through this painful divide. “But when I’m with you,” I press my palms to his cheeks, “I feel like I’m more. Wholly alive. And everything I told myself I didn’t want a few weeks ago…” I touch his lips, “Well, it’s all I want now.”
The pads of my fingers trace his lips, and his eyes drift shut, a silent surrender. “Jude Day,” he whispers before opening his eyes. “My wife was killed by the people who trained me. And Archer needs to die so I can see my daughter again.”
“Jude Day,” I whisper, staring at his mouth while my fingers feather along his jaw.
“He had to die so that Jackson Knight could live.”
I nod slowly. Jude Day became Jackson Knight. My Jack.
“How old is Jude Day?” My eyes flit to his.
“Thirty.”
I nod again. “And Jackson?”
He turns his head and bites my thumb. “Older.”
I smile before kissing his cheek. “And Jack?”
He lifts my dress over my head and tosses it onto the floor. “How old is Francesca Holter?”
“Forty-one.”
He flatters me with his slow inspection of my naked body before an appreciative smile bends his mouth.
“Jack, how old are you?”
My words hang unacknowledged in the air while he removes his shirt.
His boots.
Pants.
And briefs.
With a ginormous level of confidence, he stands at the side of the bed. “How old do you think I am?”
I don’t know. That’s just it; he’s a walking contradiction. From the neck down, he could pass for thirty-something. A-hot-as-fuck thirty-something. But the tiny lines along his face and the peppering of gray in his hair put him in his late forties … early fifties?
“Cat got your tongue? No guess?”
My lazy, unabashed gaze leaves his erection, canvases his cut, tattooed torso, and settles on his handsome (and, yes, mature) face. “Fifty?”
“Fifty,” he repeats. But it’s not a confirmation. He’s done this to me before.
I need to know. I need the truth. I want more.
Walking on my knees to the edge of the bed, I slide my hands along his chest to his shoulders. “Tell me.”
He wets his lips, threading his fingers into my hair. “It’s just a number,” he whispers before kissing me.
I welcome every touch. His hand feathers down my backside, dipping between my legs. Jack plays me one note at a time. My fingers sink into his back, urging him on top of me.
He touches my lips before kissing them. His thumb drifts down my neck, and his lips follow. A taste follows every touch. Our bodies move in tune. A perfect rhythm. We’re “Liberstraum.”
“3 Nocturnes Opus Number 9.”
“Claire de Lune.”
We’re a symphony of labored breaths and soft moans. Colliding flesh. A creaking bed.
He rolls us, so I’m hovering above him. I kiss the corner of his mouth and whisper, “Don’t stop.”
Jack grins, wrapping his arms around my body, holding me to him as close as possible. “I won’t.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
FRANCESCA
“You’re watching him?” I ask, groggy, while lifting my head from Jack’s abdomen.
He’s holding his laptop high on his chest, angled to the side not to wake or move me. “I am.”
I scoot toward his head to bury my face in his neck. “I feel music when you’re inside of me.”
He chuckles. “Chopsticks?”
I giggle, but my laughter dies when I turn my head and focus on the screenful of live video feeds.