As I dance, I curse myself for having that steel bubble. It ruins everything.
I don’t have to politely tell Stuart that I’d prefer it if he kept his hands to himself, though, because all of a sudden those hands are being ripped away from me.
Twenty-One
I see the punch connect before I recognise who’s doing the punching. Then I notice the familiar tattoos on the arms, and I know it’s Jay. Oh, my God.
“Keep your fucking hands off her,” he fumes, clutching Stuart’s shirt in his fist.
“What the hell, man? We were only dancing!”
“Yeah, I don’t give a fuck what you were only doing,” Jay spits.
At this moment Jessie saunters over, throwing an arm around Jay’s shoulder and crooning “John, I’m Only Dancing” by David Bowie into his face. Obviously, this is an effort to diffuse the situation. The second Jay hears her, his anger dissipates, and he almost smiles. His jaw is still set tight, though. He lets go of Stuart’s shirt, and Stuart backs away, looking at Jay like he’s nuts.
“You’re crazy,” he mumbles, smoothing out his shirt.
Jay smiles at him, showing teeth. “That’s what they tell me.”
My brain can’t comprehend why that just happened, and my cheeks are flaming red. Did Jay think I was letting myself down by allowing Stuart to essentially maul me while we danced?
I turn on my heel and hurry away, finding myself back in the hallway that leads to the bedrooms. Needing a moment alone, I open the door to one of them and step inside. It’s mostly empty, with just a bed and a few sparse bits of furniture. It must be Jessie’s spare room. Letting out a sigh, I flop down onto the bed and cover my face with my hands.
This entire night has been a huge disaster.
I take deep breaths, trying to calm down and push away my embarrassment. A familiar scent hits me when I turn my face into the bed sheets. They smell like Jay. He must have spent the night here at some point, and that’s why they smell of him. Trust me to pick this room of all rooms to seek refuge in. I want to get him out of my head, but somehow he keeps worming his way back in without even having to try.
Minutes tick by, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t enjoying myself a little too much. Secretly relishing Jay’s scent, remembering what it felt like to sleep in the same bed as him, his big arms wrapped around me. God, I’m so ridiculous.
I cover my face with my hands again just as I hear the door to the room open and shut so quietly I almost miss it. Something inside me knows that it’s him, a sixth sense alerting me to his presence.
Slowly, I remove my hands from my face, my heart jumping a little when I see he’s standing over me right at the foot of the bed, a torn look on his face. The top half of my body is lying flat, while my legs dangle off the edge.
“I don’t want to see you right now,” I practically whisper, my eyes becoming watery.
His head tilts to the side, his gaze trailing hotly down my body before returning to my face. “Why not?”
I sit up quickly, gesticulating furiously. “You just punched Stuart for no reason! What the hell was that about? Do you have anger-management issues?”
His jaw ticks. Yeah, I’m definitely starting to recognise that as a sign he’s not happy. “Oh, it’s ‘Stuart,’ is it? Your date just left, and you’ve already moved on to someone else? That’s real classy, Watson.”
“Are you serious? I’m the classless one? You started all this with your snide behaviour toward Owen, so let’s not pretend this is my fault.”
“I told you I don’t like him. And I don’t like that Stuart guy, either. You need to be more selective about who you let put their hands all over you.”
His words make me jump up from the bed. It seems to surprise him, because he steps back a little. I march toward him, glaring up at him and pointing my finger hard into his chest.
“You shouldn’t care about that, Jason! You only want me to be your friend, remember?”
Swiftly, he grabs the finger I just pointed at him, holding it to his chest. The warmth of his hand makes some of my anger dissipate. A quick breath escapes me. Now he starts to move forward with purpose, backing me up against the wall on the other side of the room.
“I care,” he says harshly, voice low, threatening, almost. It’s confusing that such a voice can still give me chills all down my spine. Good ones. “Friends care about their friends.”
Something inside of me deflates. “That’s all it is? A friend looking out for another friend?” I ask, needing him to say no, praying that he doesn’t say yes.
“Yes,” he murmurs, then swears under his breath. “No. Fuck. I didn’t think this would be so difficult.”
“What?”
He doesn’t tell me, just keeps staring intensely into my eyes until I think I might melt into a puddle on the floor. “I don’t want you to date Owen.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want you dancing with fucks like Stuart, either.”
I lick my lips, and his gaze zones in on the movement. His body is pressed right up against mine, and I can feel his thick length harden against my thigh. His arousal turns me on. Fizzy bubbles pop in my belly.
“Why?” I ask again, whispering now.
His hands, which are braced against the wall on either side of my head, slam down into the plaster with frustration. My entire body jumps, and my lip quivers.
He leans his face in agonisingly slowly, then tells me in a gravelly, possessive, stomach-flipping voice, “Because you’re mine.”
I gasp.
His lips descend on my lips, hard and frenzied, and I can feel every ounce of his passion. I moan into the kiss, his tongue sliding into my mouth with intent, caressing mine, claiming me. His hands cup either side of my face, his thumbs brushing the hollow of my throat, tantalising my nerve endings and making me feel it all the way down between my thighs.
I’m not entirely sure of what’s happening, but I’m incapable of proper thought. My body is in charge now, my brain instantly forgetting the events that brought us here, to this moment. And really, I don’t care. I want him more than caution would deem wise.
I’m so taken aback by his kiss that I press my palms flat against the wall behind me, too afraid to touch him. Frightened that touching him will make me wake up from the dream of him telling me that I’m his.
I once read that people who have imaginary friends never reach out to touch them. There’s some part of their brain that subconsciously knows it will break the spell. That’s what it feels like with Jay. He entrances me in a way that makes me feel like he must not be real. Someone so incredible could only be a figment of my imagination.
But he isn’t.
His erection grinding hard into my thigh is evidence of that.
Bravely, I grip his shoulders, breaking past the barrier. I could stay in this kiss forever. Stay in this room where there’s only the sensation of our battling tongues and the noise of our frantic, heavy breathing.
He plunders every inch of my mouth, nibbles on my lips, murmuring hot words, his voice reverent. His thumbs continue to stroke at my throat, so erotically I feel like I could come without him having to so much as venture any lower.
A harsh cry of pleasure rumbles out of me, and he moves his mouth down my chin to my throat to join his dexterous thumbs. He nuzzles and sucks and massages, and I feel like I’m going to burst.
“Christ, I need you,” he swears. “If you don’t stop me now, I’m going to fuck you, darlin’.”
He licks a line from my neck to my earlobe, taking it into his mouth and sucking, his tongue flickering.
“Jay.” I moan his name, and an appreciative groan rumbles up out of his chest. “Yes. Please.”
He growls with satisfaction as I urge him on.
His hand travels under the hem of my dress, sliding up my leg to my inner thigh. I whimper when he cups me right between the legs — hard. He moves his face down to my chest, whispering his lips over the crest of my cleavage, pressing needy, feverish kisses to the tops of my breasts.