Jack & Jilted (6 page)

“I want you,” she panted. “Now.”

He slid next to her on the bed, reaching for her, kissing her ravenously. And his kisses—good God, the man was an artist. What he could do with his lips alone was mind-blowing. She clung to him, molding her body to his as his mouth plundered hers. She could feel her breasts crushing against that rock-hard chest of his, and the smooth, fevered flesh of his cock pressed against her thighs, causing her to go damp in a second. His fingers dug into the skin at her hips, pulling her even closer. She tore her mouth away to get a breath, to somehow get her bearings, but he chose to inch lower instead, kissing her throat, then lapping at each nipple until she was moaning, almost crying with need.

This was what I wanted, was her last coherent thought. This was what I needed!

His fingers moved down to her thong, pushing the scrap of silk out of the way before penetrating her wet curls. She closed her eyes, biting her lip against the overwhelming sensation of him pressing slowly into her, first one finger, then two, in a slow, sensual rhythm as mesmerizing as the sea itself. She gasped, her hips bucking of their own accord.

“I want you,” he breathed, his words ragged against her shoulder.

“Please,” she murmured back, her hips increasing in speed. “Please…”

When his fingers withdrew, she whimpered in protest.

“Just a second,” he said and he reached into a little cupboard built into the headboard. He produced a condom, and she could hear the package tear and the low noises of him rolling it on. She reached down, pulling off the panties. She didn’t want anything in the way. She wanted to feel him completely.

She felt him cover her like a blanket, and the heat of him, the sheer size of him, were overwhelming. She spread her legs, feeling him nestle between them, propped up on his arms so he wouldn’t crush her with his mass.

“You’re sure?” he said one last time. She could feel the hard length of him brushing against her entrance, sandwiched between her thighs.

She couldn’t even answer. She simply arched her hips, cuddling his hardness, trying her best to get him inside her.

With a groan of relief, he pressed into her. She gasped at the unfamiliar sensation. It didn’t hurt, but it was so strange, so different. He remained still inside her for a moment, and she could feel the tension of all his muscles beneath her fingertips. “You’re…so tight,” he marveled.

He withdrew slowly, then eased back in, the friction of him making her breath catch. She hooked her legs over his hips, making the entrance wider, causing friction where she needed it and causing her to moan as her hips began to move of their own accord.

It was all the encouragement he needed. He moved with gradually increasing speed, pulling her hips flush against him, stroking his way deeper inside her until she was panting unevenly and clawing at his back with her fingertips. He was breathing just as hard against her neck as his bucking became frantic against her. She felt as though she were being pulverized, as if the boundaries where she stopped and he began were torn down by sheer sexual force.

She felt the beginning tingles of orgasm start and she felt conflicted—she wanted the delicious on-the-brink feeling to last, but she also wanted what would no doubt be the overwhelming force of it to slam through her and make her mind a glorious blank. But he was moving fast…too fast.

“Wait,” she breathed, but she realized what was happening. They’d gotten too hot too quickly, and now he was already too far gone to accommodate.

“Chloe,” he breathed, and his hips pistoned against her, again almost getting her there. Almost. He shuddered tiny aftershocks against her sweat-moistened skin.

She felt a kind of closeness she hadn’t felt in a long time, which in itself was nice, but she also felt slightly bereft. And the tiny voice, the annoying little commentator, was already leaping to the fore.

This was a bad idea, it said in its smug way.

Jack collapsed next to her, breathing hard. “Damn it,” he said.

“It’s all right,” she said absently and wondered if it really was. “It was nice…thank you.”

“Oh, jeez, don’t thank me,” he said. “Just give me a few minutes and I’ll make sure…”

“No, that’s fine,” she said, alarmed. She needed to process this. And what if it were guilt? Or something else? What if they did it again—and she still couldn’t come?

“What’s fine?”

“You don’t have to stay,” she said, trying not to offend him. “I know you said it was just for tonight—and believe me, I can’t thank you enough for it.”

“You shouldn’t be thanking me for that,” he said. “You didn’t even hit it, did you?”

She bit her lip. “Well, no, but I don’t think that was your fault.”

“You let guys off too easily,” he said, his jaw tight. “Just give me another damned chance….”

“I’m tired,” she said bluntly. “Good night, Jack.”

He stared at her for a moment with utter disbelief. Then he got up, grumbling, and grabbed his jeans, tugging them on. She watched him get his clothes back on with regret, knowing what she now knew the clothes were hiding.

“This isn’t over,” he growled and then stalked out of her cabin, slamming the door behind him.

She rolled over, burying her face in the pillow. Of course it wasn’t over. And this was why she didn’t do little stupid things.

THE NEXT MORNING, JACK was sandy-eyed and furious, pacing the confines of the captain’s quarters. He hadn’t slept at all the night before. He wasn’t angry at Chloe. Well, okay, he was a little angry at Chloe because she hadn’t given him a chance to make it up to her and because she’d gone from a hypnotic sea siren to a dismissive ice queen in about fifteen seconds. Of course, once he’d thought about it (around three o’clock in the morning, after several beers) he’d realized that he would probably be pretty peeved, too, if he’d gone all that way and not “reached completion.” And why should she trust him to do better the next time? He’d botched it pretty good the first time. Which accounted for the rest of his angry state that morning. He was boiling with self-contempt at his performance…or rather, lack thereof.

Ordinarily, he prided himself on being a skilled, considerate lover. He enjoyed sex and, like any good hobby, he’d practiced it plenty over his lifetime. He didn’t just enjoy it for his own selfish gratification, either. Other than the fact that he would not stay onshore, his lovers had never complained about him in any way. He’d made sure of that.

So what had happened last night to create such a consummate disaster?

For one thing, she had blindsided him, in more ways than one. He knew that she was in a fragile state and yet he still hadn’t expected her to ask him for sex…not and be serious about it. She might be the type to fantasize, but he would’ve bet his boat that she wasn’t the type to actually act on it. Yet with all his stupid pep talks, his “do one little stupid thing” advice, he’d all but brought it on himself.

Then, when she’d actually asked him to have sex with her, he realized that he should have said no, emphatically, and sent her back to bed alone. In his mind, he assured himself that if the event happened, that’s exactly what he’d do. But he should’ve known better. In his entire life, he doubted he’d ever taken that “noble” and celibate road when it came to women. What had surprised him then was the effort he’d made to sabotage himself—trying to get her to see reason, trying to show her that they had no future. And she hadn’t cared. She had only wanted him for one night, she’d said, and while he’d known she was probably lying, his body had conned him into believing her…because he’d wanted her from the minute she’d stepped on his dock, looking forlorn and heavenly in that pink suit of hers. From the minute he’d seen her, a luscious study in earth tones lying naked beneath her satin sheet, he’d known that one way or another he’d probably have her, given any opportunity.

The last shock was when he’d finally gotten her to bed. With all her delicate, almost haunting beauty, he’d expected it to be gentle. He’d thought to woo her, to coax her away from her shyness…to make sure that this was, indeed, what she wanted and give her plenty of room to turn back. He might not be noble, but he wasn’t a complete bastard, either. But she hadn’t needed coaxing. If anything, the moment that door had closed, she’d become someone else—someone just as enticing as the vulnerable little miss he’d become infatuated with. Hell, more enticing. He got the feeling she wouldn’t have taken no for an answer, even if he’d been able to pony up the moral fortitude to try denying her. The way she’d reached for him, the way she’d pushed and insisted, the way she’d responded were all unbelievably erotic. It was that combined with the surprise of her and the fact that he’d been lusting after her for forty-eight hours that had finally pushed him over the edge. He couldn’t have held back any longer if he’d had a gun to his head.

He rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his palms, feeling like beating his head against something for his own stupidity and lack of control. There was one last shock. The fact that she calmly switched gears and sent him packing without any seeming remorse other than possibly being seen as rude. When she’d said that she only wanted him for one night, apparently she’d meant it. And instead of a relief, he found it completely annoying.

There was a knock on his door, and he scowled at it. “Come in,” he snapped, fully expecting it to be Jose or Ace and hoping that it wasn’t something serious or costly.

The door opened. It wasn’t Jose or Ace.

“Do you have a minute?”

He sighed. Chloe was wearing a pair of white capri pants and a chocolate-brown halter top, her hair up in a ponytail and her face looking freshly scrubbed. If anything, she looked like a guilty teenager, come to confess to sneaking in late or something.

He bit back on temper. She had nothing to feel guilty about. It wasn’t her fault—it was his. And she had enough going on this week, what with being abandoned at the altar and all. He really didn’t need to make her life more unhappy, did he?

“Sure,” he found himself saying, gesturing to the small chair by his desk. He leaned against the far wall, keeping as much distance between them as possible. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” she said, then she shook her head. “Actually, I feel terrible.” He winced, and she must’ve caught it because she quickly added, “Not because of last night!”

“Well, you have every right,” he started, but she interrupted him.

“I mean, I don’t feel terrible about what we did last night. I feel terrible that I just sort of…you know…kicked you out like that.”

There was a blush riding high on her cheeks, and she was studying the top of his desk as if it were the Rosetta Stone. He sighed.

“You had every right to decide when we were done,” he said slowly.

“I could have handled it better,” she countered, shaking her head some more. “It was rude, and unconscionable, considering I was the one who had dragged you to my room and practically forced you…”

“Okay, whoa,” he said, crossing the room and kneeling in front of her so she’d have to look at him. “Beyond the fact that I carried you to your cabin, there’s feeling bad about something, and then there’s self-flagellation. You don’t have to be a martyr about this.”

She looked up, her eyes snapping at the term martyr. “I’m not! I’m just…”

“I know. You’re just not being a victim,” he said, letting some of his frustration seep out. “Just like you did with what’s-his-name, that idiot. You’re letting men off the hook and taking the blame for something that’s in no way your fault so you can feel like you have control over it. Well, last night wasn’t your fault. I didn’t do the job right, and you had every right to want time alone. You didn’t force me to do anything, you weren’t rude, you weren’t anything. So stop letting me off the hook!”

She blinked at him, and he could tell anger was warring with guilt. “I did kick you out,” she said.

“Yes, you did. So what?”

Her mouth dropped open.

“You’re allowed,” he said.

“I used you, Jack!”

Now he grinned. She sounded so scandalized by it, as if she’d committed a murder or something. “Well, duh.”

Her eyes bulged in response. “And…you’re okay with that?”

There it was again—that combination of innocence and wickedness that the woman seemed to project like a beacon. “Honey, I knew exactly what I was getting into,” he said, although even as he mouthed the words, he wondered if he really knew what he was getting into now. “Call it rebound sex, call it a therapeutic lay…whatever. You didn’t want permanent, you just wanted comfort.” He shook his head with remorse. “And you were so amazing, so damned hot, that you knocked me for a loop. I haven’t lost control like that since I was a teenager. And that’s why I was upset. You didn’t get any comfort—no matter how you tried to say it was fine. You got robbed, and I feel badly about that.”

She was staring at him now with a look of dazed disbelief. “I was so hot you lost control?”

He nodded, embarrassed. “I’m sure that sounds like a copout, and you probably think it’s an excuse because I’m not very good….”

She snorted. “Now who’s being a martyr?”

He chuckled. “I gotta admit—I haven’t had a lot of complaints. Which makes last night that much worse.”

She bit her lip, which made him want to bite her lip. He looked away from her, trying to distract himself, only to find himself looking at his bed, which was still rumpled from his sleepless night.