Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 128742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
28
I LEAN AGAINST THE DRIVER’S SIDE OF THE CAR AS I WAIT FOR HIM to answer. He takes his sweet-ass time, fighting it till the bitter end before sighing in surrender.
“I’m just protective, that’s all.”
There’s that word again. Protective. Nate said something similar when we had lunch that day, admitting I trigger a protective instinct in him. Do I really do that? And why? I always thought I came off as independent and strong, not as a damsel in distress. I wonder what it is they’re both seeing that I’m not.
“You worry me sometimes, all right? You’re not the girl who goes around kissing blokes a decade older.”
“Maybe I am.” I flash him a defiant look. “Women date older men all the time. Celeste’s boyfriend is forty-three.”
“You’re not Celeste.”
The flicker of concern in his eyes unleashes a rush of frustration that comes out in the form of a strangled groan.
“Then who am I? Because sometimes I have no goddamn idea. Don’t you get it? That’s why I’m here! It’s clichéd as fuck, but I came to London to find myself. I want to have adventures. I want to kiss lords. And I don’t need a lecture or a protector. I already have my father clinging to my leg to stop me from leaving the house. Don’t be like that too. If you want to protect someone, go shadow Lee for a day or something. I don’t need it.”
His lips twitch at that.
“What?” I demand.
Jack leans against the car beside me, sliding his hands in the pockets of his coat. Then he turns a fraction to face me. “You’re cute when you’re angry.”
“I’m not angry.”
“Still cute.”
It starts again. The nervous static in my fingertips. The flutters in my belly. Half my attention becomes consumed with my own breathing because suddenly it sounds too loud between my ears. This energy that builds in the space between us is so obvious it practically manifests in colors and strands of light. I hate that I feel this way around him and I miss it when it’s gone.
“Don’t say stuff like that if you don’t mean it,” I warn.
He blinks innocently. “What’d I do?”
“Seriously?” He’s impossible. “You’re doing this on purpose, right? To get a rise out of me?”
“Why would I do that?”
Jack’s got this thing he does with his face. Smirking at his own mischief. It if wasn’t so hot, I’d smack him upside the head. Charming guys who know they’re charming are the worst.
“Cut it out,” I order.
“Your nose sort of twitches and your lips curl up when you’re mad,” he says. “I like it.”
“Yeah, well, don’t.” But I can’t keep a straight face, and it only encourages him. “You’re incorrigible, you know that?”
“Is that bad?”
“Yes.” No. “I hate it.” I really don’t. “It’s awful.”
His grin grows wider. “You’re a terrible liar.”
And I realize in that moment why I like being around him so much. Jack brings out my silly, ridiculous, playful side. He makes me feel young. I mean, I am young. I know that. But I very rarely feel it.
By the age of five, I was a little adult, attending awards shows with my dad and learning fast that I was the mature one in our parent/child relationship. And then suddenly I wasn’t. Dad retired, and then he became the adult, and out of nowhere, my life became sheltered. He wasn’t—and still isn’t—keen on me going out, partying, dating. Since the second I hit adolescence, he’s been projecting his fear and regrets over his checkered past and questionable lifestyle choices onto me.
So no. It’s rare for me to experience all those youthful, carefree feelings other girls my age take for granted. Jack brings that out in me. Our friendship is fun, and I feel giddy when we’re together.
And inevitably that always seems to trigger a rush of need that now rises inside me.
I look up at his hazy blue eyes and know he’s feeling it too. He’s not drunk this time either.
Jack stares back at me in an infinite moment of anticipation that expands like a bubble of time as it engulfs us. I know before it happens that I’m going to regret this. And I don’t care.
I kiss him.
On my terms. Because I feel like it, and whatever he tells himself later, he means it in this moment. He returns the kiss with intent. Hurried and insistent. As if he knows I’ve waited weeks for a second chance at this.
He makes a low, rumbling sound and deepens the kiss.
I melt against him. My hands climb his broad shoulders to pull him closer. He presses me against the passenger door, his tongue slicking over mine.
“You drive me mad,” he mumbles before hungrily kissing me again.
I feel him hard against my pelvis and can’t stop myself from rocking my lower body. Just slightly, but it’s enough to summon a groan from his throat. I swallow the husky sound with another frantic, greedy kiss, needing to feel his tongue touching mine again, teasing me into oblivion.