Jesus H. Christ.
She tightened her short terry cloth robe around her body even though you could probably fry an egg on her backside. Sunlight filled her tiny kitchen, and she squinted into the light, waiting for her eyes to adjust. Behind her in the bedroom, she could hear Sarge’s sturdy frame moving on her creaky bed, probably taking a much-needed breather after…after.
It was safe to say she’d learned one valuable lesson this morning. There were worse ways to wake up than with a gorgeous, naked man whispering a husky prayer against your lady parts. Giving thanks to the Lord above in between drags of his tongue through your hypersensitive flesh.
Dear God, thank you for making this so sweet for me. Thank you for this woman who opens her thighs for my hungry mouth. Thank you…thank you…
Jasmine laid a hand on her forehead. Yeah, there were worse things. After the second time he’d brought her to a bone-melting orgasm with his mouth, she’d begged him to stop the torment, but he’d kept going. And going. True to his word the night before, he hadn’t allowed her to leave bed until her body was covered in sweat, stubbornly refusing to push his ready erection inside her.
She had a good idea what his refusal to finish was about, too. Knew he would torment her all day with the knowledge that he was in need. In need of her. Even now, she could barely stand knowing. This temporary tryst felt the furthest thing from casual, especially after Sarge’s revelation over the song. He’d written a song about her, about something she’d worn one day six years ago. Somewhere in the dark last night, with Sarge’s chest lifting and falling at her back, she’d allowed herself to consider the possibility that Sarge’s feelings ran deeper than she’d originally thought.
If that was the case, she shouldn’t allow this affair to go on. Sarge might have grown up—understatement—but he was still River’s brother. Continuing to sleep with him when buds of feelings were starting to spring up everywhere, leaves pushing open, bright flowers blooming…it was a terrible idea. With a lucrative contract just waiting for his signature, what did she expect him to do? Stay in Hook? In just a few days, she would be a thirty-year-old woman. A woman who’d adjusted her life’s ambitions from singer/songwriter to factory floor manager. She had no business trying to tie down this talented, charismatic—not to mention famous—man who was nursing the residual glow of his first crush.
It needed to stop. Distancing herself as of this morning was the wisest course of action, even though Sarge would push back. She knew he would, no question. Having that much certainty about a man’s character was terrifying in itself. Even more terrifying, however, was the certainty that same man would look at her one day and wonder why he’d settled for a Jersey girl who wore a jumpsuit and goggles to work.
Feeling pressure behind her eyes, Jasmine picked up the frying pan sitting on her stove and slammed it back down. She used to overflow with confidence. Used to laugh when anyone had the cojones to doubt her. How had she landed here?
Footsteps moved behind her in the form of groaning floorboards, but Jasmine didn’t turn around, choosing instead to yank open cabinets in search of a granola bar to throw in her purse for lunch. But when the plucked strains of guitar strings filled the kitchen, she froze, still on her tiptoes.
“Morning,” Sarge said. “Everything okay in here?”
She started rooting around again, shoving aside boxes of rice and a bag of flour. “I have breakfast with my father on Friday mornings. He’ll be here any second to pick me up.”
A masculine grunt of acknowledgment. It didn’t sound pleased. Well, too bad. It was the truth. Her Friday breakfasts with Paulie were tradition and she wouldn’t break it. Their breakfasts—and Jasmine’s sporadic visits to her parents’ house in Hook—were a comfort to her. Falling back into the familiar rhythm of speaking Spanish, listening to her father use phrases not spoken in New Jersey, reminded her of where she’d come from and the people who loved her. She wouldn’t cancel just so she could try her hand at seducing Sarge back into bed. Giving him the same treatment he’d woken her with. Jasmine’s face heated. Those thoughts were in direct violation of her resolve. Dangerous.
“Help yourself to whatever you want. There are eggs…” Jasmine turned to find Sarge, naked save a low-slung pair of boxer briefs, guitar draped around his shoulders. The combination of his finger-abused hair—courtesy of her—and that narrowed-eyed, considering look made her skin tingle.
“What are you doing tonight?”
Jasmine scrambled for an excuse to stay away from the apartment, away from him, before realizing she didn’t have to fabricate a single thing. “There is a retirement party tonight for one of the machine mechanics. That’s what I’m doing.”