Explicit

by Roxy Sloane

  In the morning, I awoke to the smell of cinnamon. I was alone under the covers. I sat up. His cashmere robe was laid out at the foot of the bed, along with some soft socks. I smiled and put them on. The luscious scent was coming from a pink bakery box on the night table. I went over to investigate. Beside the box sat a steaming cup of Earl Grey and a typed manuscript: The Solitary Man by Jackson Ford. A post-it on the title page said simply “Read.”

  I felt my pulse race. I lifted the manuscript, felt its satisfying weight in my hands. I opened it. There was a dedication: To Ellie. My inspiration.

  With shaking hands I slipped back into bed and began to read. From the first page, I was riveted. Only when my stomach demanded food did I pause to eat, barely registering the flavors because all of my senses were trained on the page. The action was heart-pounding, unpredictable. The characters dimensional, unique. It was a thriller in every sense. It was his best work, period.

  In the story, we meet Rose, Garrett Addison’s true love. Then I reached the description of the first night they met, and I could barely breathe as I realized he was describing us.

  But it wasn’t until she laughed, a full-throated, head-tossed-back real laugh, that he truly began to understand how fucked he was. He could not leave this woman alone in this pub, to get snatched up by one of these churlish local bastards. He wanted—no, he needed to have her. Take her back to the shitty flat the agency had rented him tonight and destroy the shabby twin bed as thoroughly as they could.

  Just one tiny problem.

  He was supposed to be meeting a contact here. A meeting the agency was counting on. A meeting that should be conducted in utter secrecy. Definitely not the kind of thing you did with a strange woman, one you just met ten minutes earlier, hanging off your arm.

  “So.” She turned to face him again, and the seductive glint in her green eyes almost set him running for the tab, just so he could drag her out of here right now. “You know my name. But you still haven’t told me yours. Unless you want me to fondly remember you as Perv Outside Ladies’ Toilets.”

  “For the dozenth time, that was an honest mistake.” Addison lifted his hands in innocent protest. “How should I have known that the one in a skirt was a man?”

  “It’s a kilt.” She rolled her eyes. “Honestly, it’s a wonder you aren’t dead yet. You’re lucky I’m here to sort you on all this before you get yourself into serious trouble.”

  He tilted his head closer to hers, pretending it was the beer, though of course, being here on work, he hadn’t actually drunk any of the three pints he’d ordered; just surreptitiously poured them into various potted ferns around the pub whenever the person he was talking to, which had been Rose for about the past hour, wasn’t looking.

  “What kind of trouble might that be?” He grinned, and for a moment, she almost looked like she was going to kiss him. He could picture the whole thing already. A hot, deep, lingering kiss now. His hand on her waist, the small of her back, dipping to squeeze that pert little ass, on display perfectly in her tight miniskirt. Then she’d grab his hand, drag him out of here, and they’d go crashing up to his flat, or maybe they wouldn’t even make it that far, they’d wind up pressed against the wall outside this pub, his hand sliding up her skirt, her leg wrapped around his waist as she unzipped him. . .

  The illusion abruptly snapped off, as she flashed him a wink and spun away, cutting him off. “Nice try, but I don’t sleep with guys whose names I don’t even know.”

  “It’s Harry,” he heard himself saying, half an eye on the brand of beer he was drinking: O’Harry’s.

  Right at that moment, just as he was inventing himself the least-researched, least-believable cover story he’d ever gone by, a white-haired man on the third stool from the right of the bar placed a worn paperback copy of Moby-Dick on the counter.

  His contact was here.

  Shit.

  As he made up an excuse for leaving, he broke every rule in the book by sliding her his phone number. No matter what happened, or how many protocols he had to break, he’d see this woman again. He had to have her.

  My chest tightened with emotion as I read on, chapter by chapter. That was us on the page, the way Jackson saw us. Two people who hungered for each other, sharing a deep sexual connection, but also a deep respect. Garett gave Rose what she needed, and she made him stronger. They supported each other. They were better people when they were together.

  I kept reading, unable to stop, needing to see how the story ended. I knew Garrett would lose Rose, and that the loss would turn him into the man he would become in later books. But I also knew that Rose would always be with him. Just as I would always be with Jackson now.

  It was afternoon when I reached the end.

  When I came down the steps I found him pacing in the living room. His eyes went to the manuscript in my hand. I smiled.

  “Have you been pacing the whole time?” I asked.

  He laughed, a nervous sound. “Pretty much.”

  I smiled again, walking toward him until we were standing toe to toe. His arms went around me and I leaned into his chest.

  “What did you think?” His voice betrayed his vulnerability.

  “Jackson, this book is unlike anything you’ve written before. It’s a phenomenal piece of writing,” I replied. “But more than that, it felt. . . true. It’s incredible.”

  He seemed to breathe again. He reached for the manuscript and took it from my hand, slamming it onto a side table with a triumphant grin. “This is what we can do together,” he said. “I wrote this for you.”

  “I love it.” I smiled. “I’d say you’ve got yourself an amazing novel. Or it will be, once I’m through with it,” I teased.

  Jackson laughed. “I can’t wait.”

  Then he cupped my cheek and leaned down to press a firm kiss to my lips. When we separated, he picked me up and held me close.

  “I love you,” he said.

  “I love you.”

  We kissed again. And our sequel began.

  Epilogue

  Spring barely made an appearance that year, but summer arrived early and overstayed her welcome, baking the city in ninety degree temperatures for weeks on end. During those hot months, Bianca took a long vacation in Switzerland with William, who had relocated to Manhattan to be with her, and Maggie and Rob got together upstate for camping trips and romantic hikes in the woods. I missed them, but any sadness I might have felt was outshone by how happy I was knowing that my best friends were in love.

  Phoebe’s second book, Blind Faith, hit #1 on The New York Times Best Seller list, only to be bumped to second place by Jackson’s The Solitary Man a few months later. I could not have been more thrilled. Meanwhile, Carolyn had been promoted to associate editor, and I’d acquired a few new manuscripts and was busier than ever.

  I was up late one Friday night finishing edits on one of my latest projects when Jackson finally arrived home from his flight back into JFK. He was on a short break from his book tour, most of which I’d had to miss out on, and my body was aching for him.

  “There’s my little workaholic,” he teased, dropping his bags at the door and loosening his tie as he walked toward me on the couch. I smiled and stood, wrapping my arms around his tight, hot torso. “It’s too warm for October,” he growled into my ear, his hands lowering to pull apart the buttons of my blouse. “Let me help you with that shirt. I’d hate for you to overheat.”

  “I’m almost done,” I protested half-heartedly. “Just two more chapters.” I closed my eyes and tilted my head back, letting him slide my shirt off before unhooking my bra and dipping his head down to kiss a line from my neck to my rock hard nipples to my waistband.

  “It’s after midnight,” he replied, kneeling before me to unbutton my pants and slide the zipper down.

  “Which is exactly . . . why you should go straight to bed,” I purred, gasping a little as he tugged my pants to the floor and started kissing his way up my thighs. I spread them wider so he could pul
l my panties off, and then moaned as his tongue stroked a long, slow line between the lips of my pussy.

  “Oh, I’m definitely going straight to bed,” he said, pausing to lap hungrily at my swollen clit. God, it was good. I’d missed him in so many ways. “But I’m taking you with me.”

  I squealed as he hoisted me in his arms and carried me down the hallway and into my bedroom, slapping my ass before tossing me down on the bed. He climbed up beside me, covering my body with his as our mouths explored each other hungrily.

  “It’s been too long,” he groaned.

  “Mmm,” I agreed, feeling my work ethic drain away with every aggressive plunge of his tongue. My nipples tingled as they brushed against the stiff fabric of his button-down shirt, and I grabbed his hips to pull him closer and started working to get his pants off. I could feel the hard bulge of his cock straining at the zipper, and my mouth watered in anticipation. “Shouldn’t you be jet lagged?” I teased, rolling on top of him and gripping his length in my hand.

  “Yes,” he said, “but it’s afternoon in Japan. You’re not getting off that easy.”

  “Oh, I think I am.” I smiled and moved backward, bringing my face down to his lap to trace circles around the tip of his cock with my tongue until he groaned, thrusting in my hand. I gazed at him, not breaking eye contact as I lowered my wet mouth around his dick, sucking him gently into the back of my throat.

  “Fuck,” he groaned, digging his fingers into my hair. I increased the pressure, bobbing my head up and down, sucking him deeper and faster as I lost myself in giving him pleasure. I could taste his pre-cum, and knowing how instantly turned on he was only made my need for him grow stronger. I eased away and then sat up, licked my palm, and started stroking his cock in short, firm tugs. Jackson’s eyes closed as his breaths came harder and quicker. “I have to fuck you, Ellie,” he said, his voice thick with lust. “I need to be inside you. I need to feel you come.”

  I wondered if anyone had ever refused that powerful, commanding tone. I knew I never could.

  He leaned forward and pulled me up onto his chest, his cock sliding into me so perfectly I cried out. We gazed into each other’s eyes as we rocked back and forth together, sharing every exquisite moment of aching, building pressure. “So close,” I moaned. “So good.”

  “You’ve earned it,” he whispered, quickening his pace until I was moaning so rapidly I could barely breathe.

  Then he rolled me onto my back and thrust into me again, so deep I saw stars, fucking me with long, hard strokes until I came, twice in a row, before he groaned with the power of his own orgasm ripping through him. We held onto each other, waiting for our heartbeats to slow, listening to the soundtrack of New York City at night as it carried on outside my window.

  We tiptoed naked to the kitchen and then slipped back into bed with bowls of ice cream, teasing each other with our cold spoons and colder tongues. Then Jackson got up and left the room, returning moments later and sitting at the edge of the bed.

  “Listen, Ellie,” he said. “We need to talk.”

  Suddenly the air between us felt charged, and tense. I moved closer to him and folded my arms protectively over my chest. “What is it?” I asked.

  He took a breath. “This isn’t working for me. The way things are right now.”

  My heart seemed to fail. I forgot how to breathe.

  “Spending all this time apart, meeting at your apartment or up in the Berkshires or the Woodstock house, it’s not working for either of us.”

  “Okay,” I said, my pulse pounding in my ears.

  “And I don’t see things changing anytime soon, so . . . I think we need to find a place,” he concluded. “Together.”

  I let out a long breath. It’s funny: I didn’t think, “Oh God, he’s asking me to move in with him. Oh God, we’re going to make a home with each other.” It just seemed so natural—of course we needed to have a place that was ours, a place we could work and play together, a place that reflected both of us. Of course we would live together. It was the next step. We were ready.

  “Okay,” I agreed. “But there’s no way I’ll have time to apartment hunt this month. I have so much going on at work, and with my mom, and Bianca and Maggie.” I felt myself shift into overdrive, my thoughts suddenly scattering in a million directions.

  “And another thing that has to change,” he went on, “is that we’re both very busy. And I know it’s going to stay that way. But no matter how hectic it gets, we can’t keep letting weeks go by without making real time for each other.”

  “Jackson,” I replied, feeling at an utter loss, “I don’t know what to tell you. I’m trying. We both are. If we can’t get through this now, I don’t see how we can—”

  “Shh,” he said, taking my hand in his. “We can get through anything.” He pulled a box from behind him on the bed and set it in my hand.

  I looked at him inquisitively, my heart racing, and he said, “Open it.”

  I clicked on the night table light and cracked the box open—and then saw what my heart already knew would be inside: a slender gold band with a single square-cut diamond setting, an emerald on each side.

  My sharp intake of breath betrayed my surprise. I looked from the ring to his face.

  “I thought the emeralds matched your eyes. If it’s not right. . .”

  When I could finally speak I whispered, “It’s perfect.”

  “Eleanor Parker,” he said, “I love you. I’ll always love you, and I want to share my life with you. I want to spend my days supporting you, challenging you, and making love to you. Will you marry me?”

  There was no hesitation, no doubt in my mind, and a smile broke over his face that matched my own.

  I leaned forward, wrapped my arms around him, and said, “Yes.”

  THE END

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  About the Author

  USA Today bestselling author,Roxy Sloane is a romance junkie with a dirty mind. She lives in Los Angeles with her hot ex-military hubby and her two kids. She loves writing sexy, complex stories about pushing the boundaries and risking it all.

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