His grip on her shoulders was firm as he pushed her down into a kitchen chair and shoved her head between her legs. “Take a deep breath, Nan.”
“I can’t,” she gasped.
“Are you hurt? Are you sick? Why can’t you breathe?”
“You, you. You read my story! How, how could you?”
Jackson pulled her head back up and Nan sank into a sea of embarrassment. “Just let me drown.”
“Drown? You’re not making sense.” Jackson studied her face a minute then furrowed his brow. “What story?”
Nan sucked in a lung full of air. “You mean you didn’t read from the black book?”
Jackson stood up and retrieved her black book from the floor where he must have dropped it to rescue her. “You mean this?”
“Yes.” She reached for it and he snatched it back.
“Not so fast. I didn’t read it, but when I moved it off the bed I saw Lord Weldon’s name on the page. If you want this back, you’re going to have to explain that. And let me warn you, I won’t buy into any coincidental theories.”
Nan bit her lip. She was in a fine pickle and it was her own fault. She crossed her arms, tapped her foot, and glared.
He raised his eyebrow. “Not talking, huh?”
“Nope.”
“Well, I guess I’m just going to have to read for myself. He flipped the book open.
Nan jumped up. “No!”
Both of Jackson’s eyebrows shot up this time. “Who is Black Jack? Just exactly what are you writing about me?”
“It’s not about you.”
“Not about me? The scarlet blush all over your face tells a different story. What gives?”
The game was up. She was either going to have to shoot him, tell him what she was up to, or stab him with the meat thermometer. Since she didn’t have a gun, her best option was out. The thermometer was still in the roast across the kitchen and her legs weren’t steady enough to carry her that far. She sat back down in the chair. She’d have to tell him.
“Please, let me have it back, Jack. It’s just a book of little short stories that I think about and write down.”
He grinned. “Really?”
She watched in amazement as he handed the book back to her. She took the book, her fingers so numb she couldn’t feel its leathery binding. Embarrassment burned through her every nerve.
“Short stories, huh.” He sat in the chair across from her. “That’s really cool. I didn’t know you were interested in writing. Tell me about it.”
She blinked and felt like such a fraud. Could fantasies be considered short stories? “I’ve only started doing it recently. It’s nothing much.”
“Don’t underrate yourself. Every great writer starts somewhere.”
In her mind Nan saw Hemmingway and Steinbeck turn over in their graves. “This isn’t exactly what made the classics.”
“So, am I the good guy or the bad guy in the story?”
“Both,” Nan managed to rasp out.
“If I’m in it, you’ve got to let me read it.” His blue gaze could have rivaled a puppy in the window of a pet store.
She scrambled for an excuse. “It’s not ready for someone else to read yet. I just wrote it last ni—“
“Last night? This sounds interesting. Please, I promise to keep in mind that this is just a rough draft.”
She tightened her hold on the book. Were the tables reversed, and Jackson had written something about her, she didn’t think she would be as calm and as reasonable as he was. In the last fantasy she only suggested a scenario about making love to Jackson rather than describe it as she had in many of the others. Could she live with it if he read just one?
She opened the book to the last story and shoved it to him. “You can only read this one. I’m going to put dinner on the table.”
“Why don’t I put dinner on the table and then read while we eat. You are either going to sit right here or go lie down. Those are your only two options.”
“But—”
“No buts. Next time we go out to eat when you’ve worked all day. Did you make that appointment with the doctor yet?”
Nan narrowed her eyes at him. “I’m not an invalid. I can cook, and I can put dinner on the table. I just became dizzy for a minute.”
“You know that as many times as it has happened over the past weeks, it’s more than that. Don’t avoid the issue. Have you made that doctor’s appointment?”
“Yes.” She wasn’t lying. She had. She had a checkup scheduled three weeks from Friday. After noting her poor eating habits today and getting dizzy, she was pretty sure her whole problem was nutrition. Sometimes when it came to healthcare, doctors and nurses were the worst. They consumed more coffee, ate the least balanced diet, and in the past probably smoked more cigarettes than the average person.
“Good.” Jackson stood, laying the black book on the table. “Before I start putting out all of this delicious food, where’s Shakespeare?”
Nan grinned. “He’s asleep in the magazine basket by the television.”
“Then it’s safe?”
She nodded. “He’s too well mannered to attack the table when we’re sitting at it.”
He looked at her as if she’d just told him the sun was green. “I’ve learned not to take anything for granted where he is concerned. Now what do I do first?”
“Soup. It’s in the fridge.”
Jackson was efficient and within a few minutes he had dinner on the table and had fetched the red wine he’d brought. Lighting the multi-candle centerpiece was the last step and they began eating, both so hungry they didn’t really talk for a while.
“Are you a gourmet cook or what? This is great.”
“Thanks. I’ve yet to take a class or anything, but about every other month I pick out a new recipe to fix, and once a month I try and go to a different restaurant. That way I’m always experiencing something new on a regular basis instead of getting into a rut of eating the same thing all the time.”
“There you go again.” Jackson shook his head smiling.
“What.”
“Goals and plans. They’re a cure-all to you.”
“You know what they say about an ounce of prevention.”
“Yeah. I just hope that nothing comes along and detours your whole life.”
“Things like that happen to everybody. Life is never easy. I’ll just come up with a new plan. I always have. I bought you something.” She jumped up and retrieved the plant. “It’s to brighten up your cabin.”
“Thanks,” he said, though his voice sounded dubious.
“It’s an African violet. They’re supposed to bring happiness to those who keep them.”
“Sometimes nothing can do that,” he said, but before she could reply, he picked up her black book.
She reached for her wineglass, was tempted to down the whole thing, but then set it back down. Wine wasn’t going to help. It was a good thing she had already eaten most of her dinner, because she suddenly lost her ability to swallow.
Jackson read, his expression moving from puzzlement, to interest, to a sexy grin. It didn’t take him long before he finished. He set the book down, forked the last bite of his roast and potato casserole then picked up his wineglass. He didn’t say a damn thing about the story.
Finally, she couldn’t stand the suspense any longer. “Well?” she demanded.
“Well, what?”
“I told you they were stupid.” She sat back, strangely let down. As if she had bared part of herself and been rejected.
Jackson set his wine down with a clunk. He stood and started taking off his black shirt. Nan glued her hungry gaze on him. When he’d first shown up at her apartment, damp with rain and dressed in all black, he’d looked so much like the pirate Black Jack that she’d nearly attacked him. If she’d been able to move she probably would have attacked him. Her mouth watered and her stomach tingled with anticipation. Jackson taking his clothes off was a good sign, but he stopped after removing his s
hirt and came to stand directly in front of her.
“How are you feeling?”
She licked her bottom lip. “Good.”
“No dizziness or anything like that?”
She drew a deep breath, centered her gaze on the dark triangle of hair on his chest and followed it down to the waistband of his black jeans. “Nope.”
“How’s your pulse?” He took her wrist and laid his forefinger against her vein. “It feels a little fast.” Instead of releasing her wrist, he wrapped the sleeve of his shirt around her wrist and tied it there.
She shot her gaze to his face. Only then did she see the deeply sensual gleam in his eyes. She could imagine just such a gleam in Black Jack’s eyes. Her heart sped faster and her stomach clenched with an influx of butterflies. “I don’t think—“
He leaned over and gently kissed the words off her tongue. “Don’t think, Nan. Just feel.” He stood and then pulled her up with her tethered wrist. “Do you come willingly to my bed wench, or do you need convincing?” He ran his finger down the center of her chest.
Oh, my! Nan blinked. Jackson seemed to become the pirate Black Jack. Answering words burst from her. “Never, you scurvy scum.”
Her answer seemed to disconcert him. “Scurvy scum?” he repeated, wincing.
She nearly grinned. “Tis how I see it. A man who has nothing better to do than to take the hard earned fruits of other people’s labor is a scurvy scum.”
A loud, enraged meow sounded from her bedroom followed by intermittent thumps.
Jackson looked at her and she looked at Jackson.
“What is that cat up to?” he muttered moving toward her bedroom.
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” she answered following.
“I left my new sunglasses in the truck and I didn’t bring my motorcycle.”
They entered her bedroom to find Shakespeare jousting with Jackson’s boots. The cat charged, swiped out his razor sharp claws just as he passed the boots. The boots reeled then noisily thumped back to the floor and Shakespeare charged again.
“Stop,” Jackson thundered with enough volume to shake the walls. Shakespeare skidded to a halt so fast his tail end keeled over his head causing him to flip in the air. Once he righted, he stood still, crouched on his paws.
“Don’t touch the boots again. If you do, I’m going to have to bring my brother’s dog to visit you. His name is Brutus. Got it, Shakyboy?”
Shakespeare meowed with abject humility. Then almost as if he was bowing to leave the presence of a king, he backed out of the room. Nan blinked with surprise. Shakespeare had never shown such contrition. Was she raising her cat wrong, failing him somehow? Up until now Shakespeare owned the house and let her live there.
To her surprise Jackson didn’t even go examine the gazillion scratch marks on his boots. He scooped her up and tossed her onto the bed.
“Now, that I’ve dueled with that scurvy pet, let’s see to you, wench.” He smiled slowly then, and drew a pack of condoms from his back pocket, tossing them beside her. “I think we’re going to need all of these tonight, wench.”
The condoms bounced. Twelve? Nan’s mind boggled. It was a good thing she didn’t have to work in the morning. But surely he didn’t plan to use them all tonight. She drew a deep, anticipatory breath. Whether she could manage such a feat or not, the very thought of experiencing such an odyssey of pleasure at his hands was an aphrodisiac. The smell of honeysuckle lay sweetly in the air, and the spray of blossoms he’d brought her lay forgotten on the edge of her bed. She should have put them in water.
“We were discussing stealing fruits weren’t we?” he asked.
“Yes, you knave.”
“Stealing fruits sounds good to me, especially if the fruits are yours, my lady.”
He made a damn good pirate, Nan thought as his voice and its silky smooth vibrations thrilled her. Before she could think of a witty answer or manage to squirm out from under his hard body, he slipped his shirt up through a wooden slat on the headboard and wrapped the other sleeve around her other wrist, tying it loosely.
“Your fruits are worth any risk, sugar,” he said, straddling her as he began unbuttoning her blouse.
Blood rushed through her and pooled between her legs. Her heart beat faster, and her body became fevered with sensations. She tugged on the shirt binding her, and had second thoughts about this little fantasy. “Uh, Jack, I don’t think that this—”
He leaned over and kissed her softly at first then more deeply. “Don’t think sweetheart, just feel.” Pulling her blouse open, he groaned when he saw her leopard print and black lace bra. “Nice,” he murmured, fingering the lacey edges.
She sucked in a deep breath, arching her breasts closer to the heat of his touch. He snapped open her bra and her breasts sprang free. With her hips pinned beneath him and her arms bound above her head, she was totally vulnerable to his touch, to his whim. Maybe this wasn’t a good…
“Now, let me tell you what I think about your story,” he said softly. Taking a velvety honeysuckle flower, he traced her nipples. “By the way, your fruits are magnificent.”
Then he took the flower and pulled the center of it out. Honeysuckle nectar lay gleaming on the small stem he held. Nan watched fascinated as he placed the nectar on the tip of his tongue.
“So sweet, so tasty.” He pulled out two more blossoms and did the same. This time he covered her nipples with the nectar. “Let’s get back to your story and save the fruit for later.”
She gasped at the arrow of pleasure shooting straight to the heart of her desire. “My story? Fruits? Oh, uh, not fair. I don’t want to talk about my story right now. Fruit is good. Let’s have some more fruit. Maybe stealing them isn’t so bad.”
He laughed. “How about story and fruit.” He cupped her breasts, molding them to the center of her chest and then leaned down and brushed his tongue across their pebbled peaks, sucking off the nectar. “Delicious.”
Her hips involuntarily lifted off of the bed, pressing her hot need to him. “I can’t think.”
“That’s good, just feel,” he said sitting up and releasing her breasts. She felt the loss of his touch immediately and ached for more. “Your story made me feel. I wanted to know more about the woman and the man. I wanted to know what had happened in their past and what would happen in the future. Did he tie her to his bed? Did she make love to him before they’d reached port? Did he let her go afterwards? The story turned on both my body and my mind,” Jackson said.
Starting with her bound wrists he feathered light touches over her skin, moving his way down her arms back to her breasts. “And thinking about you tied like this made me hot.” He rolled her nipples gently between his thumb and forefinger.
A groan of exquisite pleasure escaped from her. This time she couldn’t stand it. She arched even higher and her breath lodged in her chest as she shuddered with desire.
“Are you hot, Nan?”
“Too hot,” she gasped.
“I’m burning too, sugar. Burning up for you.” Moving off of the bed, Jackson shed the rest of his clothes. As he came toward her, she went to touch him, but couldn’t. She wiggled against the ties in frustration. She was about to ask him to let her go when he grabbed her ankles. Lifting her legs, he slid off her sandals, then ran a finger down the sensitive skin of her insoles. Before she could recover, he started nibbling the inside of both of her legs, bending them as he moved his way up until his mouth came down and covered the hot yearning flesh between her legs.
“I’d always heard there was more than one way to skin a cat, sugar,” he said as he hiked her skirt up to her hips and slowly slid her leopard print underwear down.
Nan giggled then gasped and groaned in response to all of the delicious things Jackson did to her. She couldn’t take anymore. “I’m skinned, Jack. I don’t feel I can stand anymore. I’m on fire. Let me loose.”
He kissed her deeply and reached up with one hand to release the wrist he had loosely tied. Free, Nan sat up and
pushed Jackson over onto his back. She attacked with her mouth and hands, placing kisses and little touches everywhere and giving his erection as much loving attention as he’d lavished on her.
She was lost completely in her need for this one man. Ever since she’d met him, he’d been the only one to consume her thoughts; he’d been the focus of her needs. She wanted him to feel, too. To feel his way out from behind that wall that kept him a prisoner. His breath was ragged in her ear and his hands trembled as he touched her. Still she wanted more from him and gave more and more of herself.
“Now, Nan. Ah, sugar, I need you bad.” He grabbed a condom and soon slid his sheathed erection inside her. “I need you now.” He withdrew a little and dove deeper. “I need you tonight, tomorrow, next week. I’ve never needed like this before.”
She sighed with the pleasurable pressure filling her. This was the way things were meant to be between a man and a woman, the passion, the pleasure, the exposure of their vulnerable selves and the acceptance of each other’s flaws and humanity. This was a part of what love was all about. Wrapping her arms around him, she matched his every move as he rocked them to ecstasy and beyond.
As they lay tangled together, gasping for air, Nan knew Jackson had somehow pirated away her heart.
“The Old Salt was right,” Jackson muttered.
“What Old Salt?”
“The scurvy pirate in your book.”
“Oh.” She snuggled closer to Jackson then her eyes popped open. “Right about what?”
“You can warm a bed better than a tavern wench.”
“What!” She smacked Jackson in the chest and started tickling him.
“I…couldn’t…resist…,” he said in between laughing and defending himself. “Seriously, I think you should write the whole story.”
“I will,” Nan said in a huff. “Only I think she’s going to outsmart Black Jack and tie him to his bunk one night when he’s had too much rum.”
“Tie him up, huh?”
“Yep.”
“You’ll have to research the logistics of that first. Did you know that I make good research material?”
“I’ll need to consider my prospects when I get ready, but I’ll keep you in mind.”
Smooth Irish (Book 2 of the Weldon Series) Page 15
