Act Your Age, Eve Brown (The Brown Sisters #3)(60)

“Because you’re too sensible to masturbate,” she said, but as soon as the words were out, she seemed to realize they were ridiculous. She bit her lip and shook her head and started again. “You’re too sensible to masturbate the way I do.”

Dear God, he almost collapsed. His muscles almost gave out, possibly because every last drop of his blood had just reported for duty at his cock. He twisted his fist into the sheets so he couldn’t grab himself to ease that heavy pressure.

“And what way is that?” he asked. Impressive, how there was only a hint of gravelly, I’m so horny I might die filth in his tone.

“With a glittery dildo and fanfiction about Captain America’s tits,” she said.

Jacob made a mental note to double up on chest day once his wrist had healed.

“Look! Look!” She pointed at his face. “You’re freaking out.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. You’re horrified. You wank quietly and efficiently in the shower so all the evidence is washed away, don’t you?”

He swallowed, hard. His hips punched up, just a little, when she said You wank. She was talking about him. She was thinking about him. Had she thought about him? “It’s easier, doing it in the shower.”

“I knew it. And you probably think about, like, disembodied tits or something equally inoffensive and—”

“Have you thought about this a lot? What I think about?” The question was out there before he could stop it.

And her response was just as quick, just as reckless. “Well, yes. But when I think about it, your fantasies aren’t inoffensive at all.”

*

Was it possible to stuff words back into your mouth? Eve had asked herself that question several times over the years, but never quite so passionately as she did now.

What the ever-loving fudgesicle had she just said?

Bad enough that she’d forgotten all about the dildo hidden beneath the cushions. Even worse that it had disturbed Jacob deeply enough for his jaw to clench this tightly—so tightly she was genuinely worried he might crack a tooth. But to top it all off, she’d sort of accidentally given him a hint that she desperately fancied him. Him, and his big shoulders, and the way he nudged his glasses up his nose, and that air of calm control he had over everything, and the way that air vanished abruptly whenever he lost his shit.

He was probably going to lose his shit right now. He was probably going to give her the mother of all lectures about appropriate workplace relationships and friendly interactions, and then he might throw several handbooks at her head and lock her in this room and possibly call a priest to cleanse the horniness out of her.

Except he . . . didn’t. Instead, he leaned closer—so close she stopped breathing. She actually held her breath, and the tightness in her chest was mirrored by a sudden, delicious squeeze in her lower belly. Even lower, if she was being honest. She’d been hot and glittering inside since the moment he’d examined her sex toy with such laser focus. When he’d wrapped his long, strong fingers around something she’d orgasmed on just last night, she’d felt her clit swell. He’d tilted his head as he stared at it, questioning her in that steel-and-stone voice, and her breasts had felt heavy. Her pulse throbbed between her thighs. Every fold of her pussy grew slick and sensitive, rubbing against the dampened cotton of her underwear.

And now here he was, leaning so, so close, and everything was getting worse. Arousal wound through her body as slow and sinuous as the music playing in the background. Which was “Special Affair” by The Internet, because of course a sexy-as-shit song would start playing right now. Of course it would.

She shifted slightly in her seat, hoping the action was subtle, but apparently it wasn’t.

“You’re wriggling, Eve.”

“Well,” she huffed, “you could be a gentleman and not point it out.” But there was no irritation in her voice; she was too breathless, and too desperate, for that.

“I could,” he agreed, before continuing to ask questions that made her bare skin feel electrified. “Are you uncomfortable?”

“I—” She shifted just so and the cushion beneath her became a sweet pressure between her thighs.

“Oh,” he said softly. “Not anymore.”

She looked up at him sharply and saw, in those cool eyes, a white-hot understanding. One so certain, it made her wonder what he saw in her face. “Jacob—”

“What do I fantasize about, in your head? Tell me. You might be closer to the truth than you expect.”

Oh. Oh, gosh.

It had occurred to her occasionally over the past week (mostly when he looked at her chest for a moment too long): Maybe Jacob is attracted to me. But she’d dismissed the thought every time, because Jacob was too sensible for inconvenient feelings, and because they’d barely even liked each other for five minutes, and because—because she was attracted to him, so clearly her perception couldn’t be trusted. She’d chalked it all up to wishful thinking and attempted to move on.

But now common sense was slapping her in the face with a list of facts a mile long, starting with him calling her Sunshine and ending with the way his tongue slid out to wet the curve of his lower lip. His eyes were hungry on her, his focus dizzying. Not just wishful thinking.

Not at all, apparently.

If she was smart, she would end this conversation now. After all, she wanted him, which meant he couldn’t possibly be good for her. Eve’s wants, Eve’s choices, were always mistakes.