“Agreed.”
He slides a pair of Ray-Bans over his eyes and starts the engine, and I swear to god this car literally purrs. It’s unreal. He reaches across me and opens up the glove compartment and, I kid you not, he takes out a pair of brown suede gloves, pulling them over his long fingers.
“Driving gloves?” I moan. “You have got to be kidding me.”
“Do I look like I’m kidding?” he retorts, adjusting the rearview mirror before putting the car in drive.
No, unfortunately, he looks damn sexy right now. I’m a shallow, shallow person, but fuck, this car looks good on him.
“Where to?” he asks as we glide out into traffic.
“Williamsburg,” I answer, giving him my address. I roll down the window to let in the fresh spring air. “And step on it.”
The butter-smooth motion of the car, plus the pasta, plus the booze must have lulled me into a drunken stupor, because when I open my eyes again we’re parked in front of my building.
“Thanks for the ride,” I say, rubbing my bleary eyes while struggling to open the door.
“More booze?” Jake looks at the entrance to the bar. “Lizzie, do you need to talk about it?”
“I live upstairs!”
He laughs. “Just checking.” He comes around and takes me by the arm, helping me upstairs. After what seems like a millisecond, and completely against my better judgment, Jake Weston is in my apartment. He looks around as I kick my shoes off and toss my coat onto the couch.
“Nice place,” he says, walking over to a framed print of Hitchcock’s Vertigo. “Cozy.”
“I think you mean small,” I yawn.
“That too,” he says, turning around and giving me that know-it-all smile that drives me fucking crazy. “But in a good way.”
Good, as in I’m only a couple of feet away from him, close enough to see that adorable little dimple in the cleft of his cheek when he grins like that . . .
No Lizzie. Bad Lizzie. Down, girl!
“Look,” I say, holding onto the chair for support. “Thanks for bringing me home and all, but I should really be going.”
Umm, what? His smile deepens, and he’s clearly amused with my drunk ass.
“I mean, you should really be going,” I correct myself. “Before I jump your cocky, arrogant bones.”
“What did you just say?” Jake snorts.
Shit, did I say that part out loud? I groan. “I’m drunk. You know what I mean.”
“You want me,” he teases, laughing.
“I don’t! Well, a little,” I admit, burning up with embarrassment. “But you want me too.” I glare.
“Says who?” Jake steps closer.
“Says me.” I meet his gaze with a challenge. “You bought me lunch.”
“A business expense.” Jake keeps grinning like the cat that got the fucking canary, igniting that itch in my blood made up of one part irritation and seventy million parts pure, inexplicable lust.
“You got me drunk.”
“You did that all on your own.”
“You brought me home.”
“To avoid any public safety hazards.”
Somehow, he’s right in front of me, so close I can smell his aftershave and feel the heat from his body. He smirks, so damn sure of himself. I need to wipe that look off his face so I do the only thing possible, the only reasonable thing in this situation, if you really think about it. Which I don’t.
I kiss him. Hard.
Jake stumbles back, surprised, but then he returns the favor, grabbing me closer and kissing me like, fuck, I don’t even know, all I know is that it’s good. Mmmm . . . He’s sliding his tongue into my mouth, his hands at my waist, moving down over my hips and squeezing my ass. I gasp against his lips, and when my eyes flutter open I see that he’s staring right at me, daring me to stop.
No fucking way.
I throw my arms around his neck, bringing his mouth back to mine. And just like that we’re moving across the room, crashing into the standing lamp on our way to the bed, his hands in my hair and that body hard against me. Point of order: he definitely works out.
Jakes slams me up against the wall, and fuck, it just makes me hotter. I haven’t been kissed like this in years. Decades, even. Centuries! I can feel how hard he is through his pants, and when I close my hand around him, he lets out this strangled groan that turns me on like crazy. I stroke him through his pants, and he bends his head to my breasts, pulling the neckline of my dress to the side, sucking my nipples through my black lace bra until I want to scream. I pull his head closer as his tongue moves expertly until the lace covering my nipples is wet through—just like my panties. His hands slide lower, and then, fuck, he’s slipping his fingers up inside my panties, pushing them aside to stroke my clit in slow, steady strokes. I moan, thrusting against his hand as I reach for his belt, unbuckling it with one hand. Fuck, I want him. I need this. It’s been so long since I came my brains out, and god only knows when I’ll have the chance again—
I freeze. Fuck. The strike.
“GODDAMIT!”
“Not the reaction I was looking for.” Jake comes up for air, his hair all mussed and his breathing coming fast. He slides his hands around my waist, moving lower, and gives me a devilish grin. “But what the hell, let’s try that again.”
“Nope. No. No, no, no!” I push him away. “What are we doing? Oh my god, what am I doing? I’m supposed to be on strike! And you’re the guy who thinks romance is nothing more than a way to get some pussy, and here I am, just giving it to you!”
“I’m willing to work out our differences, if you are.” Jake grins and reaches for me again. I shake my head.
“You need to leave, Jake. Like now.”
Before I do something I regret. In five different positions.
Jake sighs and refastens his pants. “Sure you want me to go?” he asks with a wicked grin. “What happens in Williamsburg stays in Williamsburg.”
“Go!” I toss a throw pillow at him, and he ducks, laughing. I slide to the floor. That was close. Too close.
Or not nearly close enough.
I bury my head in my hands as Jake grabs his keys, but instead of the sound of the door closing, I hear footsteps, and the sound of the faucet in my kitchen.
“Here, take two now and save yourself the hangover.”
I look up. Jake crouches beside me, and hands me a glass of water and two aspirin. I blink, surprised by the gesture. “Thanks.”
“And don’t worry,” he adds with a gentle smile. “As far as I’m concerned, you won the breakup. After all, you got to make out with me.”
Before I can yell, he laughs and saunters to the hall. The last I hear of Jake Weston is a click as the door gently closes behind him.
13
Jake
“Tell me you got her to break the strike,” Miles greets me, with desperation in his voice.