Jack and Djinn (The Houri Legends, #1)(17)

“I’m fine, Jack. Leave me alone.” Her only defense was anger.

Jack didn’t seem bothered. “You didn’t even see me until I just said your name. That’s not fine. And why the hell are you coming home at one-thirty in the morning, on foot? Is something wrong with your car again?”

Questions…so many questions. Each answer would lead to more questions, and then he’d get all sensitive on her, and she’d let him in to her kitchen to talk, and then she’d kiss him, and then she’d wake up and he’d be gone. Once they get into your pants, they’re as good as gone. Or they stick around just to get back into your pants, and then you can’t get rid of them, and once they’re tired of you, they leave. And that was the preferable outcome.

“What does it matter to you?” She knew she sounded bitchy, but that was the only way to get Jack to leave. It would be for his own good.

“If you need a ride, you can call me. You shouldn’t be walking around alone in the middle of the night.”

Oh, hell. He was protective, too? “Jack, just go. We can’t do this.”

“Do what? Talk? I’m not even touching you. I’m just worried about you, Miriam.”

“You don’t have to worry about me. I’ve been taking care of myself my whole life.”

Jack finally stood up and put his hands on her waist. He barely knew her, but he knew how to touch her, how to hold her, how to make her feel like she was his. She hated that she didn’t mind him touching her. She hated that she didn’t knock his possessive, gentle hands away, even though she knew she should. She despised herself for wanting to belong to him.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have to take care of yourself,” he said.

She tried to exert the will to move out of his embrace. She couldn’t. She only managed to lean in closer. “You don’t know me.”

“Yes, I do.” His lips were close, and his eyes were fixed on hers. His hands were at the small of her back, brushing up the hem of her shirt again and seeking the warmth of her flesh. An innocent touch, there on her back, but his hands on her skin ignited sparks in her blood, lit fires in her heart.

“You just met me,” she said, trying again to break free. He held her against him, gentle and unrelenting.

“So? Maybe I did just meet you, but I know you. I may not know much about you, but I know you. I don’t need to know where you went to school, or who your parents are, or why you’re so sad all the time. But I do know you deserve love, and you’re not getting it. You’re getting the opposite. That Ben guy, he’s an *, and it’ll only get worse.” Jack kissed her jaw, midway between her ear and her chin. Her last bit of resistance melted. “And I know you know that. You’ve resigned yourself to being with Ben. As if that’s all you deserve. You won’t even consider anything else. You’re scared of being alone, and more than anything, you’re scared of me.”

Miriam opened her mouth to argue but couldn’t. He was right, and she knew it. Damn it, he was so right. Miriam wrenched herself free, stomped up the steps, and fumbled with her keys, slipping the key into the lock and opening the door. Jack was right behind her. He grabbed her shoulders, turning her around. He wasn’t violent or rough about it, and that didn’t help her efforts to resist him. He was gentle and possessive and insistent, pulling her against his body. Miriam was pressed up against him, her breasts crushed against his chest and her hands on his shoulders and in his hair, his lips pressed against hers, moving on her mouth, his tongue slipping between her lips. He tasted like spearmint gum, smelled like paint and leather; his scent was familiar, comforting, and began to mean Jack in her mind.

His hand slid up her back, under her shirt, and her doubts were erased by the tantalizing fire of his touch. Her will to resist fluttered away on the night breeze.

She felt herself growing hot again. The back of her mind, where her thoughts never stopped, was making a connection between the fact that all Jack had to do was kiss her and she would be lit on fire. Ben had to hurt her to get that reaction.

Jack was pushing open the door and they were inside, the door kicked closed. Miriam leaned back against the kitchen counter, slipping Jack’s motorcycle jacket off and running her hands over his chest. Her shirt was on the floor somehow, and his hands were unhooking the eyelets of her bra one by one, his palms caressing the line of her ribs from back to front and pressing up against her breasts, fingers brushing her stiffened nipples; their hips were pressed together, and she felt his hard length against her. Oh, god, she wanted him. She couldn’t help it—she unbuckled his pants, slipped her hand against his stomach, under the elastic band of his underwear, and—

Miriam ripped herself free and put the counter between them, leaning over it with her head in her arms. She was stuck somewhere between a sob and half-crazed laughter. She heard Jack hiss in frustration and buckle his pants.

“I’m sorry, Jack,” she said, not looking up. “I know it’s not fair. I want you, so bad. I do. It’s not that, believe me.”

“Then what? What is it, then?” For the first time, a tinge of anger crept into his voice. She didn’t blame him. She was yanking him around, and he had every right to be angry.

“God, it’s so hard to explain.”

“Try.” He was staring into her, as if he could see every crack and crumbled shard of her oft-broken heart.