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 sit up, grinning out of control while Jack tries to act like he’s making a huge sacrifice.
He’s not.
He’s being incredibly romantic.
I snatch his phone and bring up his music app while hopping out of the car. He takes his time. When I find the right song, I set the phone on the hood and slide my hands around his neck.
Jack looks over my head at the lake but can’t hide his tiny grin. As Patty Griffin starts to sing “Heavenly Day,” I softly sing the words.
No clouds.
No trouble.
The smile on Jack’s face.
Yeah, it’s enough for me.
With his hands around my waist and our bodies swaying to the music, I rest my ear against his heart.
Archer Sanford doesn’t scare me.
The thought of dying doesn’t scare me.
The only thing that scares me is falling in love for the first time since Aiden Walker over twenty-five years ago.
I lift onto my toes, resting my lips next to his ear. “I’m not wearing a bra.”
“I know.”
“I’m not wearing anything under this dress.”
“I know.”
“Then what are you waiting for?” I ask.
“For the song to end.”
I grin, kissing his earlobe.
While the song reaches its last few lines, Jack gathers my dress in his hands, dragging it up my legs until his fingers brush my naked ass. His lips whisper along my cheek.
With the last drawn-out “Heavenly Day,” he lifts it over my head.
I close my eyes, feeling the warm breeze wash over my skin while his hands frame my face. “My brother and Lynn danced to that song at their wedding. I caught the bouquet.” Opening my eyes, I chuckle. “Guess I proved the meaning behind that tradition is not accurate.”
“You’re not the marrying type?” He tilts his head.
“Apparently not.”
“And not the girlfriend type?”
I love where he’s going with this line of questioning. My heart has never been one to swoon for anything but a brilliantly composed piece of music. Until now …
“Just the girl I kiss good night.”
Yes!
Jack’s maturity bleeds through in his patience. It didn’t in the bathroom at Eloise’s house, but tonight, he’s perfectly content taking his time. His phone plays another song. Cowboy Junkies' “Blue Moon.” His kiss is soft and slow while his hands skate along my arms to my backside. We begin to sway again.
The dirt and grass under my feet are a cool contrast to the warmth of his hands and lips and the playful tease of his tongue against mine. Every moment with Jack feels like a contrast of senses. I steal this perfect moment and pretend my life hasn’t been a tragic dumpster fire for the past six months.
“Jude, Jackson, Jack …” I unbutton his jeans and drag down the zipper while kissing his neck. “You might be the greatest experience of my life.” I glance up at him while sliding down the front of his briefs. “Does that make me pathetic?”
He blinks slowly, a heavy, drunk blink, while my hand wraps around his erection.
“Or does it mean you’re extraordinary?”
He wets his lips while the corners of his mouth quirk into a sly grin. “Maybe both.”
I bite my lip to hide my grin. The playful side of Jack has helped mend me in a way I can’t properly articulate with words. I just feel it.
His smile fades, and his middle finger draws that familiar invisible line down my nose before stopping at my lips. “But you have it backward. I am the pathetic one. You are by far the most extraordinary one.”
I wrap my lips around him and follow through with my original offer.
He stops me when he’s close to release. We kiss, letting the intensity ebb and flow.
“Jack …” I start to say those words. Those three words. Everything inside of me feels ready to burst with unspoken emotions.
He kisses my neck and chest, turning us so I’m backed into his car door. In one smooth move, he lifts me and fills me.
“Jack …” I try again.
He pumps into me, offering a labored, “Hmm?”
I love you.
“Just …” My mind blurs. The moment engulfs me. All coherent thoughts dissolve. “Don’t stop.”
He doesn’t. Then he does, but only to slow the moment, to fully enjoy the give and take—the thrill of riding that edge of pleasure. And the fear of knowing when it’s over, we can no longer pretend the world is on pause. The awful, grievous reality will seep back into our existence.
My fingers sink into his back, and he grips my legs tighter.
“I love you,” I whisper. Barely a whisper. It’s more like a loud thought. An exhale with my orgasm that sounds like those three words.
Complete mental hysteria.
Jack thrusts into me harder. And I hope his erratic movements and tiny groans block out my loud thoughts.
When he stills, glutes rock hard, lips consuming mine, I say a prayer. God hasn’t been the best at answering them. Or maybe he has answered them, and I haven’t been the best at accepting his answer.