Not My Romeo (The Game Changers #1)(100)

He leans in and kisses me, hard and swift, and we get lost, me in the feel of him under my hands, him with his hand tangled in my hair.

He stands, sweeping me up into his arms, shouldering his way back up the steps.

I smile up at him. “Where are we going?”

He pauses at the back door. “I was just going to take you to bed, but now that I think about it, we could just go get married right now. I’m sure Patrick will do it. Laura mentioned being a notary once. We can get some witnesses.”

I nearly jump out of his arms. I wiggle down. “Are you joking?”

He nods, a vulnerable look on his face. “Kind of. I don’t know. It does seem fast. And insane. Definitely insane. But I’ve never felt like this. Okay, it’s too fast. Right. I’m losing it . . . but what if you leave? What if you wake up tomorrow and decide I’m too much work?”

There he is. My beautiful man who just had a jolt full of love and trust and faith shot at him like a cannonball, and he’s not quite sure . . .

“I think you’re just caught up in the moment, Jack.” I smile. “I kind of like it.”

I manage to open the back door, and he follows me, a focused look on his face.

“You can wear your Juliet dress, and I can wear this.” His tone is serious, all kidding gone, and I shake my head at him, my mouth opening, but nothing comes out.

We stare at each other.

I find my voice. “Mama will murder us; plus you have to apply for a license.”

“So that’s a no?” His face is extraordinarily intent, wolflike.

“It’s a ‘Can we have some great sex first and get on this later?’ Mama will want to plan everything.”

He grows still, amber eyes lit with a strange light. I think it’s love. He blinks. “I just asked you to marry me, and you said yes—is that right?”

I gawk up at him. A laugh comes from me. “Y-e-s. Sometime soon.”

He looks like a two-by-four just hit him. A little scared. But happy. A slow nod comes from him. “Deal. We’ll figure it out later. Bedroom now. I want to be inside you.” He leads us to my room.

I feel wired, taut, and tense, needing this, needing him. “Socks off,” I murmur.

He whips them off and tosses them behind his shoulder.

I bite my lip as he unzips his black jeans and shoves them down. His shirt is next.

“You gonna leave me here naked?” Hot eyes drift over me.

He helps me take off my sweatshirt, groaning as he palms my breasts. Sighing, I push at my leggings until they’re gone, and I’m standing in front of him in white lace panties.

“So pretty. So damn pretty.” His hand skates from my clavicle down the cleft of my breasts to the apex between my legs. There’s this look on his face. Awe. Reverence. Love.

He slides the lace down and drops it on the floor. “I love that you are always so open with me; did you know that? I love your eyes and your hair and the way you make me laugh. I fucking can’t stop looking at you. Body made for me. And I’m going to take it real slow.”

I’m already panting at the heavy-lidded look he wears. “Not too slow.”

“Fast and hard?”

“Yeah, then the slow part.”

“I’m thinking slow first.”

I moan as he falls to his knees and nudges my legs apart, his lips dancing lightly over the smooth skin of my stomach. He licks the center of me, groaning.

Writhing, I wiggle closer to him, and he laughs against me, those eyes looking up at me. “Won’t ever get tired of this. Never in a million years.”

A lone finger glides inside me, slow and easy, his tongue on my clit, circling.

My hands land in his hair.

“Just like that first night, Elena. When I took one look at you and knew I had to see you again . . .” Another finger joins the first, rubbing against my wetness until I’m gasping, my hands clenching his hair.

I topple over the edge fast and viciously, making me cry out his name as the shock waves ripple over me, my body clenching around his fingers.

He presses a kiss to my inner thigh and hovers over me.

“Mine,” he murmurs in my ear as he lays me down and slides inside me. He holds my hands above my head, lacing his fingers through mine. “Always.” His eyes gleam down at me with passion, with love.

And love . . . love is all we know.





Epilogue

JACK

A few years later

It’s March, and the windows in our house are up, letting a spring breeze blow softly into the newly remodeled kitchen. It’s also clearing the smoke out.

“A little brown on top,” Cynthia murmurs, staring down at the chicken casserole I pulled out of the oven. She pokes at it with a fork, her face expressionless, but I feel the disdain radiating from her. She just can’t help it. It makes my lips twitch.

“Did you cook it on three-fifty for forty-five minutes like Cynthia said?” Clara asks me, sliding in next to us as she sniffs.

“I’ll be honest, those Ritz Crackers are burnt,” Giselle says, throwing in her two cents.

“Just scrape off the top. All the good stuff is underneath anyway,” Topher says, working on putting ice in the glasses for the tea.

Cynthia pats me on the back. “I’m sure it’s good, dear. It is her favorite, but she can eat my macaroni and cheese.”