Not My Romeo

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  “I was sure I screwed it up, because you left.”

  She bites her lip. “You did take your shirt off for me in the rain.”

  Why is she standing so far away from me? I take another step closer, eyeing her curves in that skirt.

  She holds a hand up. “And we had a . . . nice . . . Valentine’s Day.” Her lashes flutter for a moment. “And I forgive you for lying and leaving. But it can’t happen again.”

  And by it, she means sex.

  She sounds as if she’s reciting a speech, her spine straight, eyes stern enough to give me doubts about what the hell I’m doing. I waver for half a second before roaring back. I saw how she looked at me when I walked in. Like I was a lollipop she wanted to suck.

  “I’ve seen you naked, Elena. It very much did happen. And quite spectacularly.” I stare at her face, taking in the soft curve of her cheek, the way she fidgets from one foot to the next.

  A small laugh comes from me. “I don’t think I’ve chased after a girl this hard since high school. I did bring you back your . . . item. Doesn’t that make you happy?” I enjoy the blush that colors her face as I pull that scrap of fabric completely out and dangle it in front of her.

  She takes a step closer. “So were you just going to show up at my house and hand them over? Because that’s fascinating. You obviously know where I live.”

  I hesitate. “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “I had someone look into it. You have to come closer if you want these panties.”

  “Fine.” She’s now two inches from me; I can feel the heat of her skin, the shirt she’s wearing close to brushing up against my chest. I inhale her scent, fresh with a bit of—

  “Did you drink whiskey before you came?” My words are incredulous. “Do you have no respect at all?” I chuckle.

  She tilts her head up and gives me a glare. “It was a leftover sip from last night! If you had to live in this town and deal with my family—who, by the way, are doing their best to set me up with Patrick—”

  Jealousy crawls all over me. “The preacher? No way. He’s not for you. You’re too wild.”

  “No, I’m not!”

  I grin. “Want me to tell you the ways you’re wild?”

  She ignores me and makes a grab for the panties, and I jerk them behind my back. She reaches behind me, grappling for them, her tits against my body, firm and hard and so freaking perfect.

  “Give me those,” she hisses.

  “Take them.”

  “You’re too big!” She makes another move for them and comes close to getting them. I dance off from her, and she follows me, teetering a little in her heels, making little grabs, but I switch hands and put them farther from her reach.

  “Jack Hawke, give me my panties.” She looks up at me, little puffs of air coming from her chest.

  “Give me a kiss first.”

  Her arms fall at her sides, pretty eyes wide. “Why?”

  “Because I can’t stop thinking about your lips.”

  “You want them around your cock?”

  I groan when that dirty word leaves her lips, then laugh at the surprised look on her face, as if she never expected herself to say that. “Maybe. We didn’t do that. But I’d also like a long, breathy, make-out kiss, the kind you give me when you haven’t had several gin and tonics.”

  “Oh.” She looks confused, and I suck in a sharp breath at what I’ve said.

  Make-out kiss?

  Too soon, too fast.

  My mouth still won’t stop.

  “I want you, Elena,” I say softly.

  She sways a little, as if she’s dancing, and I move in closer until I can see the white flecks in those big eyes, the way her lashes are thick and curled, the way her skin is so perfect, creamy and—

  She yanks the panties from my hands. “Aha! Mine, thank you very much.” She laughs up at me, red lips curving up, and my heart skips a beat.

  “You tricked me.” I wrap my hand around her nape, tugging her hair down from her updo until it spills down her back. I arrange it until it falls over her shoulders, the strands silky and soft, the red and gold colors blending together.

  “What are you doing?” she says, frozen, her voice hushed, laughter gone. “We’re in church.”

  “You said cock in church, so this is nothing.”

  “I could have been referring to a rooster.”

  “You weren’t.”

  She blushes.

  “I’m going to kiss you, Elena. Right here in the nursing mothers’ room.”

  “I don’t think you should.”

  “Right now in this instance, I am. I don’t think I paid nearly enough attention to your lips on Friday night.” My lips hover over hers, and I tilt her head up. “If you want to run, now’s your chance.”

  Her breath comes out in little pants. “You better not kiss me.”

  “Then move away from me.”

  “I shouldn’t have to.”

  “You really should, or it’s going to happen.”

  “No, it isn’t!”

  Her breath hitches. But she doesn’t move a muscle.

  “Last chance,” I say softly, tugging on a piece of her hair.

  “Stop that.”

  I laugh. “You’re like an angry kitten. But you aren’t moving. I’m not holding you, Elena.”

  “I can’t move!”

  “Same.”

  She takes a breath. “But it’s church, and we shouldn’t.”

  “People kiss when they get married here.”

  “You’re infuriating.” Her eyes are on my mouth as her tongue comes out and dabs at her lips.

  “I want to show you so many things, Elena.”

  “You mean like sex things? Because I may be a little inexperienced, but I assure you I can keep up quite well—”

  “I know.” I laugh and press my lips against hers.

  Chapter 15

  ELENA

  I forgot how beautifully he kisses, his lips soft at first as they meet mine, parting my mouth, widening it slowly with little nips, his tongue delving deep, sliding against mine. His hand lands on my hip before sliding around to cup my ass. “Elena,” he murmurs against my cheek and takes my mouth again, sure and fast, his tongue tangling with mine. He tastes divine, sweet and dark mixed together, and we go from zero to a thousand in five seconds, starved and ravenous, our hands all over each other. Mine slide up his chest, stroking the expensive fabric, the rustle of my touch against him more erotic than it should be. My nipples bead inside my bra, erect and aching, and I grab his hair, sinking into him and letting go of all the misgivings I have. Why not? Kissing him is like holding an exploding star, hot and vibrant and lethal—and I want it. Just one little peck, I tell myself. Besides, it’s the kind of kiss you write in your diary; it’s the one you’ll remember when you’re old and gray.

  He groans and presses me closer against him, letting me feel the hard length inside his jeans. I sigh into his mouth, my hands digging into his shoulders. He doesn’t do anything shyly or slow when it comes to this; no, he gets right to the heart of what he wants.

  Somehow in the craziness of kissing, I’m pressed against the wall, and he’s raised my hands above my head, his mouth moving down my neck, sucking hard, then pressing small kisses there. He says my name. God, I really like when he says my name like he wants to eat me up. My skirt has hitched up, and he’s ever so slightly grinding his hips against—

  A man’s voice, Patrick’s, booms through the speaker, and we break apart as Patrick begins his sermon.

  We are going to hell.

  Jack’s chest rises. “Elena, this is so good between us—”

  Before he can finish, he grimaces and stumbles back and sits on the couch next to a group of rocking chairs. “Dammit,” he mutters and rotates his left shoulder, his fingers digging into his skin. He’s gone white, his face drawn and tight.

  Breathing hard, I bend down next to him. “What happened?”

  He shakes his head, his th
roat bobbing as he winces. “Old injury. It flares up at the worst times.” He leans his head back, taking in big gulps of air as he presses his hand against his shoulder.

  “What can I do?”

  He stares up at the ceiling, still too pale for my taste. “Nothing. I need some heating pads, meds, and a deep massage.” He closes his eyes. “Just give me a minute.”

  I try to help him get comfortable on the smallish couch, but it’s no use with his huge frame; he’s actually bigger than the couch.

  “Can you take Aleve?” I’m digging around in my purse and pull a bottle out.

  “Yeah.” He takes three pills from my hand and throws them in his mouth and swallows.

  “Let me get you some water from the kitchen.” I stand, and he takes my hand and pulls me down until I’m back with my knees on the floor.

  “No, don’t go.”

  He grips my hand as another spasm hits him.

  “Jack, please, you’re worrying me. Should I phone the town doctor? He’s no fancy athletic doctor, but he does house calls, and I’m sure he’ll come here. Mama knows his family—”

  “No, thank you; that’s kind.” He slowly eases himself to sitting, his breath labored.

  “Is this a football injury?”

  His eyes find mine. “Not originally.”

  Odd answer. “Then what is it?”

  He doesn’t answer but heaves himself up more, straightening his back and slowly moving to stand. I move with him, supporting him. I’m small, and I’m sure I’m not much help, but I try.

  He flicks hazy eyes at me. “I need to get back to Nashville. I have a whole routine I go through when this hits, and I can’t do it here. Would you . . . could you . . . drive me?” He flushes.

  “Whatever you need.”

  “I hate to ask you.”

  “I can tell.”

  He nods. “I’ll get a town car to bring you back.”

  “Of course.”

  I’d agree to anything right now to get that grimace off his face.

  Moving slowly, he walks to the door, me beside him. My panties are lying on the floor where I dropped them, and I bend down and stuff them in my purse.

  He huffs out a laugh. “You’re either going to be pissed or amused when I tell you something.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I had those in my pocket last night.”

  “You are a sicko, Jack Hawke. You had those the entire time and never offered them to me? I may never forgive you.” I smile.

  “Carried them around all night, like a little secret I had all to myself. Then you walked up to me, and I thought I was going to pass out in shock.” He leans against the wall next to the door, pausing for a moment to rub his shoulder.

  I shake my head. “Why didn’t you just give them back?”

  He sighs. “Thought about it. Probably should have. Wanted to see you again.”

  “Jack.” I shake my head, bemused by his interest. “What am I going to do with you?”

  “First thing is get me out of this church without anyone seeing I’m in pain. Think you can do that?” He gives me a searching look. “If just a hint of an injury gets out . . .”

  Right. His career. He’s overly paranoid about everything. “You’re speaking to the unofficial and unwanted leader of the Daisy Lady Gang, so yeah, I’m slick. I know this church like the back of my hand. Hand me your keys, and I’ll pull around to the back. All you have to do is leave this room, go right all the way down the hallway, and there’s a side exit before you reach the kitchen. Got that?”

  He nods. “Smart. My keys are in my pocket. Do you . . . can you get them for me?”

  I nod and pat his right pocket, sticking my hand inside as he leans his head back against the wall.

  “Elena . . . ,” he moans when I grab the metal keys, brushing my fingers around something hard.

  “How on earth are you excited and in pain?” I’m whispering, and I don’t even know why except that I’m close to him, and he’s so beautiful and . . .

  He huffs out a laugh. “It’s been a while for me. And it’s you, I guess.”

  Well.

  I let out a shaky breath and hold his keys up. “What are you driving?”

  “Black Porsche. When you come out, it’s to the left, next to a big Lincoln.” He sends me a look. “Can you drive a stick? This car is kind of my baby, and the thought of you grinding gears—”

  “My nana taught me to drive a tractor when I was ten. I can handle your fancy little car. The issue might be getting you in it.”

  “I’ll take care of that. Meet you outside in three minutes?”

  I give him a nod and open the door.

  He grabs my hand before I can exit. “Elena . . .”

  I look up at him. “Yeah?”

  He licks his lips, a look on his face I can’t decipher. “Thank you.”

  I smile. “For what? I’m helping you get out of here and back home. I’d do that for anyone.”

  He flashes a half grin, half grimace. “Yeah, I think you would. What I meant is thank you for . . .”

  “What?” I’m whispering. Again.

  “For being you. For forgiving me for lying. You have more capacity for kindness than most.”

  I shake my head at him. “You just haven’t met the right people, Jack.”

  “Maybe.” He closes his eyes as another flicker of pain crosses his face.

  “Okay, I’m going to get your car.”

  He nods.

  “Jack?”

  “Yeah?”

  I glance down at our intertwined hands. “You have to let me go.”

  He flushes and drops my hand. “Sorry. See you in three.”

  I exit and shut the door behind me, scanning the area. Usually there are people dashing to the restrooms or latecomers still coming in, but since it’s the preacher’s first day, it’s quiet as a . . . church. I snort and dash out the front door and head to the sleek black Porsche.

  I slide inside and adjust the leather seat, my nose filling with the scent of him inside the interior, all male and him. I rub my hands over the steering wheel, caressing it, thinking about Jack driving it . . .

  Forget daydreaming. Right. I have a mission.

  I crank it, and the engine rumbles, powerful and ready to eat up the road. I whip it in reverse and drive over to the side entrance. He’s already waiting for me outside, his shoulders straight, his face stony.

  I jump out and open his door, and he walks to the car, pauses for half a second as he takes in the low passenger seat. He lets out a string of curses, and I grimace as he manages to bend over and arrange himself. He attempts to reach for the seat belt, but I beat him to it, pulling it across him and snapping it together.

  “There,” I say.

  I’m rising up when he tugs on my arm, pulling me back to him.

  “Things were just getting good in there, and . . . I may not ever get another kiss.” He cocks an eyebrow. “Am I right?”

  Instead of answering him, I just smile and shut the door and get back in and speed away from the church.

  Chapter 16

  ELENA

  Where are you?

  Your car is still at church. Everyone can see it.

  Did you leave with that football player?

  Elena Michelle, you missed Sunday lunch.

  Okay, okay, I’m sorry about the preacher. But I think he liked you!

  FYI, I saw on the internet that Jack Hawke has a drinking problem. He is NOT marriage material.

  I sigh as I read the series of texts Mama has sent me. Nothing about Jack screams drinking problem. He’s viscerally alert and focused, too competitive to allow alcohol to rule him. I’m not sure how I know this, but I do. Yes, he had the scotch on Friday, but there’s nothing wrong with a good whiskey. Plus, he didn’t even have a drink in his hand at the VIP party.

  And then there’s Aunt Clara’s texts:

  You should have seen Cynthia at lunch. She chewed so hard I thought her teeth might break. You
’re with Mr. Hottie Footballer, aren’t you? Sneaky devil. Take some pics for me. Bare-chested? Dick pic? LOL.

  I put my phone down as the young male trainer approaches. Gideon something. We’re inside Jack’s penthouse, and he’s just wrapped up a session of working on Jack’s back and shoulders. “He needs rest. I’ve worked out most of the kinks, but if he has any more pain, just give him the Aleve again. He won’t take anything harder because of drug screens.” His next words make my eyes flare. “He really does need rest. No workouts today; know what I mean?”

  “I’m not with him.” Get a grip, water boy.

  “Uh-huh.” He eyes my neck for some weird reason.

  I open the door. “Jack and I are friends.”

  He blushes all the way to the roots of his gelled hair at teacher voice. “Sorry, I just assumed. Jack, ah, women, everything I hear—”

  I open the door wider. “Please don’t assume. I’m sure you have other things to do on a Sunday afternoon. Goodbye.” I smile politely in a way that says, I may appear sweet, but don’t mess with me, bucko.

  He walks through it, and I shut it firmly.

  We arrived here about two hours ago. After I called Quinn, who lives in an apartment close by, together we got him up to the penthouse through a side entrance and a private service elevator.

  Gideon arrived in fifteen minutes, whipped out a massage table and oils. Jack changed into athletic shorts, crawled on top of the table, and the trainer went to work. My eyes kept going to that black-and-yellow tiger tattoo on his back, that snarl, the sharp teeth bared and ready to bite. I barely recall it from our night together, just catching glimpses, but mostly I didn’t pay much attention to his back. I really should have. It’s menacing looking but beautiful. I’d like to trace my fingers over it . . .

  When I turn, Jack is rolling his shoulders in the den, an eased expression on his face. I try to focus my eyes off his broad chest, but it’s hard. The muscular pecs, the ripples of his tight six-pack, the slight V where his hips meet his black shorts. Even his thighs are powerful, thick and taut as he does a few stretches.

  I look up at the ceiling. Lord. Have some mercy.

  Also, my buzzed memory does not do him justice.

  Quinn pops in from the kitchen area. “You hungry, sir? I can whip something up.”