Free An Unexpected Love by Claire Matthews Page B

in the back of an old green cab and slid in after him. I had no idea where he lived, so I reached into his back pocket, feeling the strong muscles of his ass against my fingertips, and retrieved his wallet. After I gave the cabbie the address and we started moving, I debated whether or not to return his wallet to where I found it but settled on slipping it in his jacket pocket. He grabbed my forearm and pulled me towards him, surprisingly fast for a drunk.
    “Lex,” he said softly. I couldn’t tell if the abbreviation of my name was meant to be some sort of endearment, or if he was just so loaded he’d become monosyllabic. His mouth crashed down on mine with no preamble, and I realized Jack wasn’t the kind of guy who had to deal with subtle persuasion. Women wanted to kiss him so badly, he could probably lean his head out the window of the cab and lock lips with any girl on Atlantic Avenue.
    I’d like to say I had the strength to resist—that I backed up, pushed him away, told him to stop. But, in my defense, it had been six years. Six years. So I kissed him back. And kissed him some more. The kiss went on and on, until we were both making tiny noises into each other’s mouths. He tasted like liquor and smelled like sweat, and it was so sexy I almost wept with longing. He pressed himself so hard against me I could feel everything. And my knees fell apart, because I wanted everything and more.
     
     
    By the time we made it to the steps of Jack’s Beacon Hill row house, his eyes were more focused, and he navigated the stairs without help. I stood behind him, watched as he found the right key to unlock the door.
    “I’d better be getting home,” I said. My lips were raw from his kisses. The cab waited for me on the street.
    Jack turned and came back down the steps, his feet careful, as if his expensive wingtips were full of water. He passed me without a word, went to the cab and reached for his wallet. His hand cupped his own ass for a second, feeling around his empty back pocket, until he turned to me, looking confused.
    I cleared my throat. “Jacket.” I pointed in the general vicinity of his waist. He reached in and slumped with relief. After he paid the cab driver, he came back to me. I was kind of surprised I let him send the cab off without even pretending to protest. But not really.
    “Come in for a minute,” he said, taking my cold hand in his large, warm one.
    “For a minute,” I echoed. The Vestal Virgin.
    Once in his house, we hurried down the front hall, straight to his bedroom. No offer of coffee, no tour of the grounds. He flipped on a lamp, then pulled off his suit jacket, letting it fall in a heap at his feet. Before I’d even taken in the cool gray walls, the ultra-modern bed, the glass-top nightstands, he’d torn off his tie and popped half the buttons down his shirt. Finally, he looked at me, and his arms fell abruptly to his sides. Obviously he was used to women disrobing on cue. My stillness baffled him.
    “Jack…” I said. My voice sounded thin. He moved towards me.
    “May I?” he asked, reaching out to grab the hem of my sweater with his fingertips. I swallowed, which I guess in drunk Jack-speak means “be my guest”, because he pulled the sweater over my head, and of course I raised my arms to help.
    “You should wear this…” he paused to hook his finger under the strap of my black cotton camisole, “…without a bra. So sexy.” He ran his hands up my stomach, cupped my breasts through the thin fabric. “So sexy.”
    And now I was shaking, because Jack Brogan just called me sexy. My hands reached out, splaying across the hard expanse of his chest. I felt his nipples against my palms, felt the curly hair tickle my fingertips. His skin was hot, and I needed his heat against me. I ripped off my camisole and bra while he ripped off his pants, and we came crashing back together, both bare from the waist up. He kissed my lips, my chin, my neck, before bending to take my