In Your Dreams (Blue Heron #4)(96)

Or not. Maybe it was dumb. Maybe she should eat something before drinking any more wine.

She took another sip just the same. “Jack, I think you want to be with me because I’m here, because we’ve already done the deed and because you want a distraction from your troubles.”

“All of those things are true. I also like you.”

For some reason, those words scared the living bejesus out of her.

He liked her. She already loved him. It wasn’t like she didn’t know that already.

Crap.

This was exactly the kind of situation that led to doom and despair, to whining to the Bitter Betrayeds, to crying in one’s pillow, to that unutterably bleak knowledge that you loved someone who didn’t love you back. Jack wanted a distraction. He liked her; that was it.

“I should go,” she said, clearing her throat.

He turned off the stove and came around to her side of the soapstone counter, and Emmaline swiveled on her stool to keep him in sight. That was a mistake.

He braced his hands on either side of her and leaned forward. Oh, he smelled good. Like laundry detergent and wine and food and smoke.

“Don’t go,” he murmured.

Then he leaned in closer, and rubbed his cheek against hers, and she felt the scrape of five o’clock shadow, the heat from his body. His lips brushed her jaw, and her legs went weak and hot, and a nearly painful throbbing began in her girl parts.

“Jack,” she managed.

“There’s chocolate cake for dessert.”

She swallowed. “Is that your idea of foreplay?”

“Yes,” he whispered, kissing the spot where her jaw met her throat, so, so softly. “Is it working?”

She leaned back a little and looked into those clear, smiling blue eyes. “Yes,” she heard herself say.

Then his mouth was on hers, soft and smiling, and she’d been an idiot, because for two weeks now, she’d been putting him off when she could have been kissing him instead. His hand went to her head and started tugging at her bun, which of course wouldn’t come out without a crowbar and a map to the seventeen bobby pins, but no, nope, he was doing it, her hair was loosening, and then his fingers were sliding through it, and a few bobby pins pinged on the floor. His mouth was on her throat, causing flashes of heat to spark through her. Without her thinking about it, Em’s hands slid up his ribs and onto his chest, feeling the solid, warm muscles shift and slide.

Then he pulled her into a standing position, holding her close, which was a good thing because she wasn’t 100 percent sure her legs were working. She tugged his shirt out of his jeans, feeling the warm, velvety skin sliding over muscle.

She took off her utility belt—oops, should’ve thought of that before, didn’t want to accidentally shoot the guy—and draped it over the chair.

Then Jack lifted her up (strong, really, she had to give him credit), and lay her down on the kitchen table and proceeded to unbutton her uniform shirt, brushing away her hands when she tried to help. He pulled off her boots, unbuttoned her pants and tugged them off, cleverly unhooked her bra and slid off her panties.

And then Jack Holland did her right then and there.

Who needed cake?

* * *

“THIS CAKE IS FANTASTIC,” Em said a very pleasingly long time later.

She was curled up on his couch, wearing a pair of rubber ducky pajama bottoms (his, a gift from his niece, he said) and a Cornell sweatshirt, eating Mrs. Johnson’s famous chocolate mocha cake.

Jack was watching her eat, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth, and she felt quite like a sex goddess. Oh, yes.

Yeah, yeah, she was a tramp; sue her. Like she was going to be able to resist Jack when he whispered things about how she tasted and smelled and felt, and all those things were very complimentary and she felt beautiful and strong and weak and cherished all at the same time.

She’d taken a shower in his glorious bathroom and spent a minute looking at herself, bedraggled hair, bee-stung lips, a possible love bite on her shoulder that she rather felt like photographing and posting to her Facebook page. My hickey–with Jack Holland. Her chest was still flushed and her skin looked creamy and, hells yes, she had it going on.

His bathroom was pretty amazing. There was a massive rectangular tub encased in a huge block of dark wood, the lip wide enough so a person could have a few plants or a glass of wine, a sandwich and a book and not have anything get wet. The shower was equally impressive, separate from the tub behind a glass brick wall. She combed her hair and put on the clothes he’d given her and padded to the kitchen, where, in case Jack wasn’t already everything and a bag of chips, he’d sliced them each a huge piece of cake.

Dessert first. Finally, a man who understood her.

Sarge was asleep in front of the fire, and Lazarus sat on the mantel, looking very vulturelike as he gazed at the fat little puppy.

“Will your cat eat my dog?” she asked.

“He’ll try.” Jack sat next to her and took her feet onto his lap. “We’re dating now, by the way.”

“Well, that’s—”

“Hush, woman. We’re dating. Now finish your cake. I have plans for you. You’ll need your strength.”

And for once, Em didn’t object.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

TURNED OUT ALL Jack needed was a woman. At least, that was what it seemed like to him.