“What?”
“You know exactly what. But, for what it’s worth, you’re not a failure. Duncan is just a fucking prick who made you think that to make himself feel better. I’m happy you left him.” His knuckles trail down to my collarbone, and I arch against him as he hoarsely adds, “Even if I can’t have you, I’m happy you’re not with someone like him.”
“You can’t have me or you don’t want to?”
“Oh, Williams, there’s nothing I want more, but I can’t do that because I don’t want to ruin things with you.” He strokes his thumb over the hollow of my throat, circling my skin slowly until my breath comes out in short gasps. Releasing a guttural groan, he forces himself away from me, dragging his fingers through his hair, no longer seeming to care about his wounded hand. “You deserve better than what I can give you emotionally. And that’s why I can’t show you exactly what I want from you, Lucy.”
Seventeen
Lucy
The words Jace spoke to me just before retreating from his kitchen to put on another shirt and change his jeans are embedded in my brain for the next few days, and on Thursday, I realize what an incredibly stupid idea it was for me to agree to go with him to Albany. Sure, it's a relatively short drive, but three hours of sitting next to the man who's invaded my thoughts and dreams for the last several weeks is a stressful experience.
For starters, he smells too damn good, like his shirt I wore home last week. Like the inside of his house. The low heat blowing from the vents on either side of the dashboard makes breathing him in more unbearable, and I find myself holding my breath more often than not just so I won't fall under the spell that's Jace Exley's incredible scent.
And then, of course, he looks amazing. I'm not sure which Jace I prefer—the disheveled man I've gotten used to seeing covered in dirt and metal day in and day out, or the one sitting next to me—but I'm not foolish enough to deny that both manage to take my breath right from my lungs with little effort.
At some point between yesterday evening and this morning, he’d trimmed his beard, and when he came into my office an hour ago to let me know it was time to go, I immediately noticed he’d somewhat tamed his unruly brown hair. He's upgraded his usual work pants for dark gray wash jeans, his welding boots for expensive-looking brown leather, and has temporarily traded in his flannel shirt for a gray tee shirt that proudly displays the tattoos on his biceps. Although it's in the low twenties today, he isn't wearing a jacket. When I had pointed out how cold it is on the way to his car, he'd muttered that driving in coats makes him feel claustrophobic.
Now, gripping the steering wheel, he looks ... tense. I note his strained forearms and the rigid posture that looks so uncomfortable even I cringe. His full lips are drawn into a thin line, and I wonder what he's thinking. Daisy had mentioned how much he hates interviews, but I figured he would spend the bulk of the trip admonishing me for coaxing him into speaking with Allene rather than in complete silence.
For now, though, I welcome the quiet because I'm not sure what to say. I've been a mess since he took the photos of my hands and kissed me speechless. And that moment between us in his kitchen only worsened the chaos. He hasn’t mentioned either encounter—and he probably won’t—but the thing is, both had happened. And, closing my eyes, I swear I can remember exactly the way his tongue felt dancing with mine in the photo room and how his fingertips moved along my skin just a few days ago.
I want my boss.
I want him to get that taste he talked about that night at the bar, and I want to feel him against the tip of my tongue. I want his hands in my hair and his fingers at the hollow of my throat again. I want to trace my fingers over his skin, even if it's for one night, and that terrifies me because it's so un-Lucy. So unprofessional and filthy.
I want to tell him I can't think straight with him so close because I. Want. Him. And it's all because he had managed to dig his way under my skin with just one kiss and a few words.
Instead, I clasp my fingers between my knees and stare straight ahead as angry rock music blasts from his car stereo. Every few minutes, I feel his gaze scorch the side of my face, but I don't look at him again. Not after admitting that dirty truth to myself.
When we finally arrive at Allene’s studio at 5:28, he says his first full sentence to me since we left the office. As he parks his Challenger in the parking garage of the station's building, he asks me what time the interview starts.
"Six," I say, and he looks over at me, a slow grin splitting his freshly-shaven features. God, I hate the pang in my chest that comes along with being on the receiving end of that smirk. Inadvertently, I skim my tongue over my upper lip. I immediately regret that decision because his focus settles on my mouth for a long beat. I clear my throat, but he still doesn't glance back up. "Is there something wrong?"
"You're always thirty minutes early," he points out.
"There's nothing wrong with coming on time."
My face goes up in flames the second my tongue unleashes those words, but they're also what finally snaps his attention in my direction. He tugs his own lip between his teeth, holding it captive for a few seconds before releasing it. Leaning away until the back of his dark head touches his window, he shakes his head slowly. "Careful, Lucy," he finally says, the soft growl on that initial word coursing a tremor down my spine.
I start to tell him that I was being one hundred percent non-sexual, but he leaves the car without another word. I scramble out just before he punches the key fob to lock the door.
Once we're inside the building, we immediately meet Allene, who is prepping for her show in the large office the station's clerk leads us to. I've done my research on the blonde dressed to the nines in a slinky pink wrap dress and mile-high pumps. She doesn't look a day over thirty, but at forty-four, her career in radio started after she worked as a very successful phone sex operator for several years.
Her claim to fame was no taboos, and she often says on her show that she gave her clients exactly what they wanted (and needed) to make their most outrageous fantasies a reality. Which makes her the talk radio version of Jace. As soon as we step into the office, her eyes slip right past me and land on my boss. She takes him in from head to toe. I feel like the girl from high school who watched cheerleaders and band girls and just about every other female in between flirt openly with the guy, but I say nothing.