Too Hot to Handle (Romancing the Clarksons #1)(35)

“It’s okay, Rita.” The more pressure he applied, the more she started to shake, moan. “I like my fucking a little rough and a lot dirty, too.” At the exact moment he squeezed Rita’s throat, he bore down without mercy, grinding her lower body against the massager without any chance for escape, closing his eyes when she screamed. “My name is all over this orgasm, now I want it coming out of your mouth, too. Let me hear it.”

“J-Jasper.”

Lord, when she climaxed beneath him it was like riding a bucking mare. Her back arched, legs kicking out, arms reaching out for purchase. There was an answering need in Jasper to give Rita that anchor, so as soon as most brutal part of her orgasm passed, he turned her over. Suctioned their mouths together for a kiss that worked to stabilize not only Rita, but Jasper, too. Because, hell, he’d never been more linked to another human being before, reading her, feeling her pleasure. While he hadn’t found his own release—and, yeah, there was a motherfucker of a case of blue balls headed his way—he felt…fulfilled, just having gotten Rita there.

Her fingers twined in his hair as they kissed, mouths moving in sensual rhythm, tongues easing in and out. Their heartbeats were audible everywhere. Between them, in his ears. The boom boom, boom boom made it impossible for Jasper to ignore the throbbing in his pants. If he didn’t stop kissing her soon, they wouldn’t be leaving the motel room tonight.

With ten gallons of reluctance, Jasper pulled away—and the absence of her mouth caused the first frisson of doubt to intrude since Rita had opened the door. “You still want to go to dinner with me, right?”

Rita sat up slowly and he did the same, both of them still breathing heavily. “Yeah. Yeah, of course I do, but…”

His heart dropped straight through the floor, probably even down into the basement. “But what?”

Her languid gaze slid over the fly of his jeans. “Don’t you need me?”

As soon as Jasper’s relief was done backhanding him in the face, the compulsion to reassure Rita took its place. When she said Don’t you need me, he knew damn well she meant sexually—and there was no denying he did. Badly. But when he answered? Hell, Jasper didn’t think he meant it the same way. “Yeah, beautiful. I do need you.” When Rita went still, Jasper forced a smile. Too much, asshole. Pull back. “I need you to get dressed, because I’m starving.”

Jasper climbed off the bed and went to wait at the door, pretending not to notice Rita staring after him, her pretty face flushed, maybe even a touch disappointed that he hadn’t taken the offer. That disappointment twisted a knife in his gut, but it was better than the alternative. Climbing back on the bed and delivering the only thing he’d ever been good for, before finding out if maybe he could be good for more.





Chapter Seventeen



There weren’t many things that could throw Rita for a loop. Working in restaurants—kitchens, specifically—she’d been subjected to all manner of drama, arguments, human quirks, and that one customer request that she spit in his soup. Culinary school alone, with its sabotaging and opportunism, had been a miniature version of the stainless-steel world she’d lived in. Throw in television cameras—such as there’d been on In the Heat of the Bite—and that behavior was only amplified.

But Rita understood the mechanics of that world. Be the best or get demoted. Be original or get panned by critics. Be be be. Although she’d ultimately buckled under those pressures, she’d lived inside of them semicomfortably for a long time. They were familiar. As was her self-imposed solitude.

Unfamiliar was now. Tonight. This drop-dead-gorgeous motherfucker of a man pouring wine for her across the table. Why? What did he want from her? Not sex. That had been made abundantly clear. In fact, her feminine pride felt like a few holes had been poked in it. And she hadn’t even known she possessed any feminine pride. The women available to Jasper probably owned stock in that shit, spritzed it on like perfume. Meanwhile, she’d sat there on the bed with her big mouth hanging open. Just the memory of him burning rubber toward the door made Rita want to face-plant in the bread basket.

Jasper was experienced. Which was an underexaggeration on par with “Gandhi was pretty chill.” When her dates made it into the “might as well sleep together” zone—which was once in a blue moon—there was a lot of awkward bra fumbling and trying to avoid eye contact. Jasper operated with the kind of sexual confidence she’d never personally felt. Ever. She still couldn’t quite get over what they’d done together in the motel room—full-contact masturbation?!—while Jasper’s current easy, good-old-boy demeanor suggested he’d just come from yoga class.

Seriously? She couldn’t even cross her legs without biting down on her lip to prevent a moan from flying out. Everything was sensitized after being given such forceful treatment. Was she even fit to be in public right now?

Jasper reached across the table and squeezed her arm, sending a rush of diamond-encrusted tingles all along the limb. “I’m going to order you a drink, Rita. You look like you could use one.”

“Thanks.” She wasn’t even going to argue or pretend vodka didn’t sound like manna from heaven. “So, um. So…this place looks fun.”

When Jasper lifted an eyebrow, Rita wanted to dive under the table. Maybe make a tablecloth fort. “Fun.” She could hear the rasp of his stubble as he stroked his chin, looking around the restaurant. “Sure. I guess you could say that.”