Page 38 of One More Night
Ice washes through my veins as I slowly turn to look at him. Jordan sits stoic, watching the cars around us as he navigates to the next lane over. “Pardon?”
“You’re not the only observant one.”
“You have no right to ask me that.”
“Did he hurt you? Or was voyeurism his thing?”
My jaw aches with the withheld tension. “Stop.”
“He watched your ass in that goddamn dress as much as I did. Wasn’t hard to figure out his intentions when he’d continually adjust his seat.”
“I said stop.”
“Not nice when somebody delves into your past without permission is it?”
I swallow back the strange mix of shame and anger. “Let me out. Your three months is off the table.”
“No.” He shifts both hands to the wheel.
“Excuse me?” I straighten in the seat, making my position prim and proper. Like hell I want this jerk to get any ideas.
“The three months, Corinne.” He slows to a stop at a red light and then rolls his hips to face me. “It’s about letting that shit go. For both of us.”
I narrow my gaze on him, not entirely trusting of his sudden shift in approach. Only narcissists swing from nasty to caring like this. He strikes me as one: sure and confident in himself, certain that he’s the best at whatever the fuck it is he does.
“I’m sorry. I’ll tell you what you want to know,” he assures with a gentle sweep of his fingers beneath my jaw, “but not tonight. Can we just enjoy our first night without all that baggage?”
“Technically it’s not our first night,” I sass, folding my arms again.
He resumes driving the final block to my place with a grin curling his lips.
“What?” I give in and ask.
“Doesn’t take much to wake the tiger in you, does it?”
“I let myself be walked over long enough, which it seems you know already. So sue me if I’m a little defensive.”
“I don’t mind it at all.” His arms are a thing of beauty as he turns the wheel and navigates us into the narrow parking space outside my apartment building. “Come on. The sooner we eat, the sooner I can get back to distracting you from this couples bullshit.”
My jaw hits the floor as he opens his door and steps out, stretching his arms over his head to reveal his toned midsection.
I curse myself for insisting I choose what he wears tonight since he gets to pick my outfit. The dark distressed denim hangs low on his hips, the tailoring of the jeans a goddamn masterpiece when it comes to how they hug his ass. Team that with his black T-shirt, and open short-sleeve button down and goddamn … he’s GQ material.
Think with reasoning, Corinne. He’s just told me in not so many words that he wants me for the sex.
But isn’t that why I want him?
Three months.
I step out of the Range Rover and pull a deep breath.
Twelve weeks of orgasmic bliss, and I can call it a sabbatical and get serous about finding a new job.
You only live once, right?