I wasn’t, though, was I? Sex is supposed to be like I feel right now. Like I’m going to die unless someone takes the ache away. Now. Not just someone, though. A specific man.

My eyes land on something sitting on the table. It’s the newspaper I found on the steps this morning. It landed there early and I didn’t want to wake up Jason or Birdie bringing it to them. There’s a subscriber sticker on the roll. Jason Bristow, along with the address. Suddenly there is a devil on my shoulder telling me I should return the newspaper. Now. Anything to get back in his proximity. My body is begging me. I’m not thinking clearly at all. I’m a servant to the memory of that hand on my hip, the offer of something…hot. Hard.

I’m already calling myself ten times a fool as I snatch up the newspaper and move on shaky legs back down the stairs.

“What are you doing?” I whisper. “What are you doing? Go back.”

A growl of pain comes from inside the house, snapping my mantra in half. Someone’s hurt. No, Jason is hurt. I only left him a few minutes ago—what could have happened in such a short time? I don’t know, but he obviously needs help. Hastily setting aside my selfish neediness, I drop the paper on the driveway, letting myself into the house.

“Mr. Bristow?” I call. “Are you okay?”

Panting drifts down the hallway. Loud. Rasping. Urgent.

I move toward it, already trying to figure out where Jason would keep his first-aid kit. Under the bathroom sink? The kitchen?

When I reach his bedroom door, I hesitate a moment. It’s an intrusion, but surely an emergency excuses this breach in manners. Yes. Surely it must. I push the door open.

Jason’s broad, tattooed, at least six-and-a-half-foot frame silhouetted in the window, his packed muscle chest rifling up and down. Standing. Corded thighs flexing. So his injury must not be too bad—

I slap a hand over my mouth to trap my gasp.

Jason’s head whips toward the door, his body turning to half-face me. I don’t move. How can I move? Buttocks tensing and loosening, thrusting hips, an expression of utter pain…and his hand. Jason’s hand is paused mid-way through its progress up his huge…huge. His erection is huge. Jason watches me through narrowed eyes for a few beats before continuing to stroke, his thumb rubbing over the veined head.

My back bashes up against the doorframe. “I-I thought you were injured.”

“Might as well be,” he grates, dropping his head forward, his hand pumping faster, faster. “Never been in this much pain, baby, and I’m sorry. You caught me at the point I can’t stop, so either shut the door or come help me.”

“Help you?”

I can’t even believe I’m still standing here. The second I realized Jason was pleasuring himself, I should have slammed the door, run for my Range Rover and driven straight to a monastery. Yes, a vow of silence and years of self-reflection are the only way I’m even going to get over this sight in front of me. This private male ritual that is so much more…raw and arousing than I ever realized.

Because it’s Jason performing it, whispers a voice in the back of my head. Help him. Oh Lord, that devil on my shoulder is back and it’s talking nonsense. There’s no way I could go closer, let alone participate. Unfortunately, my thighs are writhing and when I wasn’t looking, my hands started creeping toward my breasts. Breathing. When did my breathing get so shallow?

“Naomi,” he groans through his teeth. “Go. Or get over here.”

I can’t believe I’m doing this. But I’m back in that state of suspended reality, just like in the restaurant, trying to make excuses for doing something purely because my body wants it. Yes, before I can stop myself, I’m walking on shaky legs toward the bed. Jason’s head flies up, his nostrils flaring. Primal. Hungry. It’s intoxicating and exciting to have someone look at me like that.

Someone? Or Jason?

I can’t answer that. Not now, not ever. Maybe I can give myself this one pass, though. Like carbs at brunch. As soon as I get within reaching distance, he snags the back of my dress with his free hand, pressing me toward the bed. Into that position I need so badly. So badly that I whimper, falling forward onto my elbows, presenting my bottom to him. It’s indecent. It’s amazing.

Jason flips up the back of my dress, lifts, leaving it gathered at my waist. A hoarse sound leaves him. “Goddamn, Naomi.” His rakes his hands over the cheeks of my bottom, squeezing. “You’re the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen.”


I have no idea what I’m asking him, but somehow he interprets. “You’re not ready for me to strip off these little panties yet, are you?” He runs a finger under the narrow strip of cotton hiding my most private flesh, grazing my clit with a knuckle and making me suck in a breath. “You curious enough about my cock to come closer, but not enough to take the pounding.”

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