It's hard to believe he doesn't like this sort of thing because he projects the perfect blend of the three C's—cockiness, confidence, and charm. He and Allene are only a few minutes into the broadcast before she lays her own blatant brand of charm on thick, openly flirting with him in that seductively breathy voice of hers. Listening to her giggle and tease him shoots red spots through my vision because I am jealous. It’s ridiculous—I have no right to feel this way about a man who can’t and won’t pursue me because it’s bad business—but the thought of Jace with another woman constricts my lungs.
Because he knows I want him.
To my surprise, though, he effectively dodges all of Allene’s attempts to ear-screw him. When she asks about his sexy accent and whether it snags him more pussy, he tells her about the brand's partnership with Lorelei’s in London, who only carries the best bondage gear in the U.K. And after Allene grills him over what brand of condoms he prefers—because why wouldn’t she want to know what he wraps it up with—he nudges the conversation toward the line of "playthings" EXtreme designs. Then, pausing for a moment, he finally informs her that he uses the condoms in the "shiny gold packet."
From the low whistle she lets out, she’s obviously impressed by his answer—hell, even I want to give him a round of applause for that one. Then, Allene launches into a discussion about his favorite sex positions. She doesn't talk about EXtreme herself until close to the end of their set, when there are about five minutes left before she opens the line to their audience.
"Damn, Jace,” she says breathlessly, and I try not to clench my teeth as I imagine her leaning in close to him, her breasts dangerously close to spilling out of her wrap dress. “You're a Magnum-wearing, waterfall-fucking freak, but what is one thing about EXtreme Effects that you want our listeners to walk away with?"
He's silent for a moment. I close my eyes, picturing his brows knitted together over blue-gray eyes and his tattooed fingers flexing as he races them over his stubble. After a long beat passes, he releases a breath and says, "That it's good to fuck."
"Wow," Allene laughs then sighs. "Care to elaborate on that one because I’ve been saying that for years?"
"I don't even think it needs elaboration. It's good to fuck, healthy to get it out of your system, and our company makes fucking ... better. Our clients know they can come to us with any fantasy, any desire, and we'll make it a reality without ever judging. This is going to sound cliché, but there’s no such thing as too extreme—not when there are consenting adults involved."
Even though I know for a fact we don't have a company manual, heat still races straight to my core. The way he said those words, in a sinfully low voice, likely has half the women listening on our website now to see if the man has autographed the chrome dildos.
“Do you apply your own philosophies to your own sex life?” Allene questions him, and his chuckle slides beneath my skin, wrapping around my core and giving it a harsh pump.
“Always.”
But that’s not the truth, and I nibble on my bottom lip as his words—there’s no such thing as too extreme when there are consenting adults involved—echo through my head. I want him to say those words directly to me and then act on them. Because we’re both adults. Because for the first time in my life, I don’t want to be professional.
I just want him.
Groaning, I drag my hands through my hair and try like hell to focus on the rest of the show as Allene accepts calls from her listeners. I push aside the chaotic mixture of disappointment and uncertainty that’s churning in the pit of my stomach, listening intently as Jace charms everyone he speaks to for the next twenty minutes. I’m relieved that neither Griff or Ash are among the callers, and when Jace returns to the hospitality room after the set, I’m grinning like an idiot because I’m so proud of the way he handled himself.
“You were perfect!” I grab my purse and head toward him. We meet halfway, his boots bumping against the suede toes of my black pumps. "I thought you didn't like interviews.”
“I never said that, love.” He gives me a strained smile and lifts his hand toward my face. For a second, I swear he’s going to touch me again. I want him to. Crave his hands on my skin. But then he makes a fist and drops his arms to his side. "I don’t like personal questions, but I can talk about fucking all day."
Except for when it comes to me. Lovely.
Swallowing hard, I follow him as he walks toward the elevator. "Isn't talking about your sex life about as personal as it gets?"
He steps into the elevator car when the doors glide open. "It's the part of myself I don't mind sharing.” Skimming his fingers through his dark hair, he lifts taut shoulders. “Now, get in. I need to get you home.”
He’s painfully silent for the first hour of the trip back to Boston, and I convince myself that he'll simply ignore the electricity humming all around us. He’s done it before. I’ve spent most of the quiet ride coming to terms with the fact I’ll open my nightstand drawer when I get home. I’ll find my vibrator. And as I tighten my sex around it, biting my lip hard so I won’t make a sound, I’ll think of Jace.
“Lucy,” he says roughly, drawing me from my thoughts. He doesn’t rip his focus from I-90 to acknowledge me with his eyes. "Seeing your lips wrap around the word fuck made me want to put my cock in every hole in your body."
My eyes widen as his narrow. "I’m sorry, what?”
"You heard me the first time, and I'm not going to sugarcoat it for you. You told me I confuse you, but I don’t think it’s confusing at all.” Heat wiggles through me because that accent that had commanded my attention when I was a child is on full display now. “Every time you walk into my office in one of those fancy shirts that have no place in a workshop, every time you give me shit—dammit, every time I look at you—I want to fuck you."
“I—”
“Close your mouth for a second, Williams, and listen,” he interrupts, flashing his hot stare in my direction. I press the heel of my palm to my throat and nod. “I’ve wanted a taste of your cunt since the day you came to class in that black skirt with all the silly buttons running along the—”
“Jace.” I hold up one hand to stop him, my fingers shaking. A muscle ticks in his jaw, but he lets me finish this time. “Are you talking about high school right now?”
“What other time did you wear that skirt around me?” he demands. I clamp my eyes shut, vividly remembering the outfit he’s talking about. I’d worn it only once—along with a fluffy red sweater for yearbook photos our junior year. I’d swapped outfits with Jamie by the end of the day, but I still recall how Jace had looked at the sweater and skirt combo with narrowed eyes and quirked lips. At the time, I figured he saw my outfit as the most pathetic attempt at trendiness he’d ever seen, but now I know different.
Now, I know—
I hug my arms around my waist and suck in a breath. “You wanted me in high school?” I ask numbly, earning a growl from the man beside me.