Likely, no one would believe a man as gorgeous as Jax was willing to be indiscreet with her, but she wasn’t taking any chances.
“I don’t want to get involved. I really don’t. So discretion is a must.” She didn’t. She couldn’t. Could she? No. She didn’t want to invite more chaos. Meshing dating with children and busy lives was chaos times a million. She had to focus on her—her life—her needs—her children, especially Clifton Junior and his anger.
Jax nuzzled her jaw again, sending all sorts of new heat through her body. “Meaning?”
Her breath shuddered a little. “Meaning, we don’t do it in the square? At Lucky’s in aisle seven?”
Jax’s head shot upward as he barked a laugh. “You’re new to this, right?”
She liked his neck, solid, corded with muscle—nose-burying worthy. “I just stumbled off the turnip truck.”
“I mean, my house? Your house? Or a hotel?”
She shook her head and looked him square in the eye—her lusty penchant temporarily on the back burner. “Not my house or yours. No children. That’s an absolute. They can’t be involved in any way. No sleepovers, no catching us in the act.”
“Fair enough. Seeing as my daughter’s always underfoot, I have two nosy brothers living with me and you’re a single mother, hotel?”
“Not in Plum Orchard. You couldn’t be seen within a hundred paces of that place without Johnson Martin blowing your cover.”
“Johnson Martin?”
“He owns the Plum Orchard B and B. It’s the only game in town, and if he were a woman, he’d be a Mag. That’s how good he is at gossipin’.”
Jax cupped her jaw, scraping his thumb over her skin. “Got it,” he rumbled. “I have an idea. Don’t the boys visit their father?”
Her fingers circled his wrists like they’d always been doing it. “They do...they also visit their grandparents, but I can’t have your car at my house. Everyone will set to talkin’ then because Plum Orchard has eyes.” Everything in her cringed in panic. All she needed was just one Mag’s tongue wagging.
“Is that like The Hills only with Southern belles and shotguns?”
“Worse.”
“So am I your dirty little secret?” He moved his mouth away from hers.
“Well, you are a secret, but I don’t mean for it to sound cruel. I’ve just had dirty little secrets on public display. I don’t need to add to that by sleepin’ around.”
Jax relaxed again, moving his hand to the back of her neck, kneading it as he drew her closer. “But you’re not sleeping around. That would imply you’re sleeping with a lot of people at once. I’m only one man. Not a lot of them.”
Now she pulled away, flattening her feet, her gaze direct. “If you can’t understand why I wouldn’t want people talking, we can end this conversation now. I don’t have to explain myself or my reasons. You haven’t lived in Plum Orchard all your life. You don’t know what it’s like when everybody knows your business. I’m not givin’ those horrible women somethin’ to talk about.”
“Understood,” he soothed, until she was straining toward him again. “So where to go?”
“My Jeep?”
Jax chuckled. “Wait. I have that big guesthouse in the back. It’s not heated, but I suppose I could run an extension cord from the garage for one of those floor heaters. It’s got a blow-up mattress. We meet in secret. You park your car somewhere discreet.”
Em sighed, her shoulders slumping. “A blow-up mattress.” A pump and some plastic had never entered her forbidden sex fantasies.
“It’s all I have unless you have something better?”
She’d never done this before. Places to have sex where a Mag wouldn’t find you had never occurred to her before. “I’ll think on it. For now, it’s the guesthouse.”
“Next?” he muttered, stroking the shell of her ear with his tongue.
“No romance. You don’t need to bring me flowers. I mean, I love ’em, but I don’t want them from you.”
“What’s wrong with flowers from me?”
“Nothing’s wrong with them. I’m sure they’d be beautiful. What I mean is, I don’t need romance with my...”
“Sex?”
Her skin went hot and red again. “Yes. That.”
He shrugged his wide shoulders, but his face said she was crazy. “Okay. No romance.”
But wait. “Do I have to define what ‘romance’ is?”
“I think I get the meaning. No food or wine or feeding me grapes.”
She giggled, maddened by the press of his lips. “How is me feeding you grapes even a little romantic?”
“Totally joking. Anything else?”
“You don’t have to ask how my day was.”
“You don’t want to talk at all? No warming you up? Are you real?” he teased.
She was real. This bargaining was very real. And she was doing it like she’d been to the bargaining table before. “I might want you to talk, but it won’t be about my day—or yours. I don’t want to know about your day, either.”