She couldn’t help it; she smiled.
“You think this is funny?” he gritted through his teeth, reaching out for her hand and pressing it over the enormous mass of his cock straining against the front of his pants. She sucked her breath in sharply, but didn’t try to pull her hand away, curling her fingers around him instead. “I don’t know how funny you’re going to find it when I have to walk through the restaurant with a fucking boner trying to bust through my pants?”
A startled laugh escaped her, but Jake only groaned in answer, pushing her hand away. Then he grabbed hold of it and dragged her along with him. He needed to get the hell away from her bed and quickly or he really was going to lose it. They’d already made it to the top of the stairs before she managed to stop laughing and say, “Jake, wait, I need my shoes.”
He stopped, squeezed his eyes shut, and counted to ten. Without looking back at her, he mumbled,
“You go back and grab ‘em and I’ll wait for you out front.”
Her fingers slipped from his, and he asked, “Where’s your bags?”
Here it was, do or die time. “I, ah, left them in the kitchen.”
The breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding released in a burst of intense relief. He forced himself down the stairs, struggling to keep his body from turning around and following her right back into that room, locking the door, and keeping her in bed for the next sixty or so years, trapped beneath his body and his cock.
Food first, man. Food, then the fucking, and then forever.
Chapter 5
“So, Jake Farrell, what have you done with your life?”
He smiled and leaned back to get as comfortable as a man his size could get in such a small chair. The restaurant was perfect, their cozy private corner ideal for the conversation he had in mind. The ride over had been quick and quiet, thick with sexual tension, but the soothing ambience of Angelo’s was slowly helping Taylor to relax. And the table was small enough to have her easily within his reach. Considering all that, Jake would’ve been happy sitting on a crate. “Where would you like me to start?”
She took a small sip of wine to cover her nerves. Of course, it would’ve helped if her hand weren’t shaking so badly. “Start at the beginning, from the moment you left.”
From the moment you left me.
His jaw tightened, his eyes eating hers. “I didn’t want to go.” His tone was low, but forceful with the honesty of his words.
She gave a small smile, unaware of the sadness—the loneliness that shone through. “But you did.
Where to?”
He studied her for a moment, and then he said, “You know my parents died when I was ten.” He didn’t wait for an answer, but just kept talking. “I lived here with my father’s brother, my Uncle Mark. I have another uncle, this one my mother’s little brother, who lives in upstate Washington. His name’s Frank. Anyway, I drove my old pickup outta town and went to live with him, worked my way through college, and then started my own business with a loan from both of them.” He smiled. “Which I paid back within two years.”
He’d given her only the bones of his existence, leaving out the lonely years of longing. For her. It was going to take time to convince her, he knew—but there was no denying the impatience to make her understand now.
She laughed softly. “Jake Farrell’s life in thirty seconds, huh? Somehow,” she drawled, clucking her tongue, “I think there’s a lot you’re not telling me.”
One dark brow rose. “Yeah?”
“Uh-huh. For instance, what kind of business do you own?”
“I’m a contractor.”
“Really? What do you contract?”
Jake laughed, loving everything about her. “Houses, honey.” He held out his calloused palms. “I build houses.”
“Ooh!” She looked so excited, scooting closer in her chair. “That’s so wonderful. I mean—how
fascinating. God, I bet you’re wonderful at it.”
Her faith in him was staggering. With his head cocked to the side, his eyes trying to read her, he said,
“Why would you say that?”
“A fellow artist’s instincts,” she replied with a warm smile, completely at ease for the moment. “They
zing every time I look at you, Jake.”
His eyes flared with heat and she suddenly realized what she’d just said. Oh, God, she groaned. Her instincts zinging? She might as well come right out and tell the blasted man she was completely fascinated with him—obsessed with him—head over heels in love with him! She needed to change the subject. Quick! “Where do you live?” she asked too brightly, wincing at the desperate sound of her voice.
Jake took pity on her for the moment, but he wasn’t going to let her avoid the subject forever. “I’m still living in Washington, but I might be moving soon.”
Her eyes went wide. “Really? Where?”
Wherever you decide you want me to build our house.
He waited while their waiter brought out fresh, mouthwatering breadsticks and their salads, refilled their glasses, and then murmured, “It hasn’t been decided yet.” She gave him a questioning look, but he didn’t offer to elaborate. “And what about you?” he asked around a bite of crisp romaine and croutons.
She smiled. “You already know where I live and that I paint.”
And that’s all you’re going to know.
No way in hell was she going to tell him about her books. Oh, she’d have loved to be able to share her success, but the truth he’d see on those pages would be too humiliating to endure.
Jake took a long swallow of wine, waiting for her to open up even though he knew she wasn’t going to. This was going to be the hardest wall to scale, but the most rewarding in the end. And God, he was scared to death of her reaction. If she panicked and ran out on him, he didn’t know what in the hell he’d do. Chase after her, of course, but then what? How do you convince a woman that you love her more than anything in the world? How do you make her understand that you can’t live another day without her? He had a good idea how to prove his point physically, but would it be enough emotionally?
They dropped the topic for the moment, making casual talk about the restaurant and Sandy and Angelo’s success while they dug into the food. But as soon as their plates were cleared and their entrees served, Jake cut right to the heart of what he wanted to know. “So,” he murmured, scooping up a forkful of steaming lasagna, “why’d you marry him?”
Taylor laughed, but not because the question was funny. No, she laughed at herself. Why had she married Mitch? Lord if she knew. Yeah, her sorry excuse for a mother had pushed her into it, wanting her hands cleared of a daughter so she could hit the road, but there had to have been more to it than that. Maybe she’d done it out of fear, or anger, or hell—she really didn’t know why she’d done it. Instead of answering, she asked, “Why’d you leave?”
His jaw hardened as he swallowed. He didn’t want to think about the night before he’d driven out of town. Didn’t want to remember all his mistakes and the things he should’ve done—should’ve said. But Taylor deserved answers.
She deserved everything.
“Because I couldn’t take the fact that you were with him. Couldn’t stand hearing about the two of you together one more day. I was going crazy with it. Hell, I didn’t trust myself not to do something stupid and kill the asshole.”
Her expression was guarded, as if she didn’t know quite what to make of his words. “I always thought
Mitch was your friend?”
Jake fell back against his chair, looking out at the endless night through the open window. His eyes clouded with regret, as if he were seeing the past and all its mistakes play out before him. “I don’t even really know how to explain it, Taylor. Mitch was more like family. We grew up together. Spent our lives together. His mom babied me like I was her own. Nothing had ever come between us till you. I didn’t know how to handle it and the bastard knew it. He saw the way I looked at you when I thought
nobody was watching, and so he rubbed it in my face every chance he got, the fact he had you and I
didn’t.”
“But he didn’t have me, Jake.” Her voice was quiet, soft, while she pushed her Chicken Marsala
around with her fork. “Not until after you’d gone, anyway.”
Jake’s eyes snapped back to hers, demanding an answer. “Why’d you marry him, Taylor? You knew what he was like.” His tone was more curious than accusing.
Was there really an answer here? One that even remotely made sense? Her hands clenched her napkin beneath the table, twisting as if she might wring the truth from the wrinkled linen. “Maybe it was just because you were gone. You left without saying goodbye, Jake. It was stupid and childish, I know. I mean you hated me, right? Why should I have cared that you were gone?”
She shrugged, looking suddenly embarrassed and unsure, not quite able to meet his eyes anymore. “But it was like something died inside of me and I just didn’t care anymore. I think I’d gone out with him all that time just to be closer to you. Not that that made any sense either, because you always ignored me. You never even really talked to me, and I had no reason to think Mitch might’ve lied about you not liking me.”
His hand caught hers under the table, holding it tight enough to hurt her fingers. She didn’t think he even realized how he held her, as if he were afraid she’d slip away from him again. “If I’d thought for one fucking moment that you wanted me, I’d have taken you with me, Taylor. I’ve been waiting my whole life to—”
He broke off at her stunned expression. She was going all shocked and flushed on him again because he was running away with himself, losing control. He took a long, slow breath, struggling for calm.
Sanity.
Patience.
“Okay,” he finally said, “let’s hold that thought and try another route. I know Mitch didn’t keep his hands off your sweet little ass, so how in the hell did you keep from getting pregnant?” He knew Mitch would’ve wanted a child, seeing a baby as a way of holding Taylor to him forever.
She blushed clear to her roots, looking sunburned. “I went on the pill, but even then I still made him wear a—you know.”
“You made him wear a rubber?” Jake snorted, his eyes wide with stunned surprise. He’d have thought it was funny as hell, if he could’ve found anything funny in the thought of the two of them together. But he couldn’t, because it made him sick and angry and thirsty for the bastard’s blood to think of Mitch’s hands on Taylor. All the times he’d had the privilege of sleeping beside her body. The times when he’d sunk inside of her and become a part of her.
Mitch must’ve been the biggest fool alive to have destroyed his chance with Taylor Moore. He was a pig through and through—which meant that he and ol’ Wanda Merton were perfect for each other.
Taylor’s shoulders stiffened at his tone. “Of course I made him wear protection. Every single time,” she said tightly, “not that there were all that many times to worry about. I may have been naïve, but I wasn’t that stupid. I knew he’d slept around, that he still did, that he always would. I wasn’t willing to take any chances. And after awhile, he got tired of it anyway.”
Jake snorted again. “Yeah, right. More like his miserable little dick couldn’t take the fact that he couldn’t make you come.” His eyes pinned her, demanding she hold his stare. “And he couldn’t, could he?”
Her slim shoulders hunched, as if she were trying to close in on herself. “It really wasn’t his fault, Jake. It’s me. Something’s just wrong with me or—oh, I don’t know. I can’t really explain it. I don’t even really like sex, if you want to know the truth. I’m awkward and it hurts and I just don’t get what the big deal is. Not unless—” she snapped her mouth shut, unwilling to give him the entire truth, which was that she only got excited when thinking about having sex with him.
Jake sat straight up in his chair, the tiny table separating them so insubstantial it was almost forgotten.
“He hurt you?” he demanded, his tone violent and angry.
It took her a moment to understand what he meant. “Not on purpose. I really think it was just me.”
The last thing in the world he ever wanted to think about was Taylor letting Mitch slide between her slender, silky thighs, but he couldn’t stop himself from pressing her for all the dirty little details. He was like a madman; he had to know it all. “I’m not buying it,” he grumbled, his jaw working as if he had to force the bitter words out. “You’re telling me that screwing was just painful for you with him? Was he too big, or did you really have trouble getting wet with him?”
And was he really going to be able to keep down his lasagna listening to this?
“I don’t know.” She clearly hated the topic, looking both frustrated and uncomfortable, and as if she was seriously beginning to consider wringing his neck. “I didn’t get very wet—there, so maybe he was just, um, too big.”
Not good, Jake thought with a groan. Hell, he’d grown up with Mitch. He knew the size of the guy’s cock, and it wasn’t anything to brag about. Not small, but average, and he was anything but. Shit, if sex with Mitch hurt, she was probably gonna run screaming when she saw the size of his own hard-on. He was about twice as thick as Mitch and had a good three and a half inches on him in length. Of course, the fact that she hadn’t been wet enough would’ve made it more painful for her. Mitch wasn’t only a total prick, but a lousy-ass lover as well. It was all Jake could do to bite back a satisfied smile.