I hear a very content humming and finally realize where it’s coming from. Me. I’m humming. I’m so fucking happy to be kissing this man that I want to burst into song.
I shift around so I can straddle him. Not in a porny way—in a high school making-out-on-a-bench sort of way. I’m not grinding down on him or anything. Surely this doesn’t count as a lewd public act if we’re both fully clothed. Even though the bulge in his jeans feels so hard and good between my legs, surely no one else knows this besides us.
“How old are you?” Emmett asks, trying to control his breaths, his voice all husky and full of sexy manly sexiness.
“Twenty-five.”
He blinks. He seems surprised by my answer.
I kiss him all over his face because I want to. “Do I seem older or younger?”
“You just seem young. To me, anyway.”
I rub my cheek against his cheek because I want to. “How old are you?”
“How old do I seem?” He kisses me again, so deeply, so passionately, it takes my breath away.
When he finally pauses his delicious attack on my mouth, I grin and say, “Forty.”
He startles me with a quick smack on the ass, and the most surprising thing about it is how much my body seems to like it.
“Forty-five.”
He does it again, and I still like it. I like how his jaw is clenched, but I can tell he’s trying not to smile. I like how his hooded eyes are fiery, but he’s amused and daring me to taunt him some more.
“Fifty, and that’s my final offer.”
He grips my hips and squeezes, and that’s when I know. I know I will be battling nonstop nipple erections for months, just from thinking about him. I know how many orgasms I’m going to have because of this man, whether he’s with me or not. I know how many times I’ll be changing my panties in the days and nights ahead, just because of these hands on my hips. I know how little sleep I’ll be getting, whether it’s because he’s with me or because he isn’t.
I run my fingers through his hair and dip down to kiss him—maybe not with all my heart and soul but with absolutely everything else I’m prepared to give him right now.
It’s a lot.
And he takes it.
He takes it, and he gives back every hesitant broken piece of himself that he’s willing to let me take from him.
But he can control himself, and for some reason that turns me on even more.
He’s a man.
I’m kissing a real man, and I don’t even remember why I hadn’t before.
All of a sudden, I can hear Frank Sinatra singing “The Way You Look Tonight.” The song’s being carried across the water, from a car in the nearby parking lot perhaps.
With each word your tenderness grows.
“This song,” he mutters, pulling his lips away just long enough to say, “this song is going to remind me of you from now on.”
“Am I tearin’ your fear apart?” I tease.
His eyelids flutter and he says nothing for an awkward moment. And then: “What’s your last name?”
“Walker.”
“Fiona Walker.”
“Yes.”
“You look like a Fiona Walker.”
“Thank you?”
He drags his thumb across my lower lip and then cradles my face in both hands. “It’s a compliment.”
“Good.”
“You’re beautiful, Fiona Walker.”
“How old are you, Emmett Ford?”
He grins and strokes my jawline and then lets his fingers glide down my neck, sending shivers down and back up the center of me. “I’m thirty-five.” He kisses my neck.
My head falls back and my eyes close and I see stars.
This is the thing. This is the thing that I’ve been anticipating. And maybe Emmett Ford is too much of a gentleman to ask me to go to bed with him now, despite the fact that I have basically been trying to consume his entire face for the past ten minutes.
Screw it.
It’s been a night of firsts.
I’m going to proposition a man for the first time in my life.
“Emmett…”
“Yes?”
“Your place or mine?”
He stops kissing my neck and clears his throat. “Fiona. I want to see you again. Soon. Later today, if possible. But I think we should go home now. Separately.”
Record scratch sound effect followed by total silence.
“Oh.”
He seems surprised that I seem disappointed. That I might feel rejected. That I don’t understand that what he’s saying is the opposite of a rejection.
“I like you,” he says, resting his forehead against mine. Like it’s an admission of some kind of weakness. But it’s this tiny gesture, his forehead against mine, that makes me wonder if this is more than just hormones. If it’s more than hands on hips and the delirium of staying up all night with a handsome stranger. “I really want to see you again. Without your cock. That’s the first time I’ve ever said that to anyone.”
It’s definitely not a rejection.
It’s the start of a bigger story than I had ever allowed myself to imagine for myself.
So I can wait for the next chapter.
There’s still so much we have to learn about each other, but we know enough.
“I like you too,” I whisper.
It feels good to be whispering this true sentence out loud when we’re this close.
At least now I know what will be keeping me awake.
At least now I know what it is I’m anticipating.
At least now I know exactly what my heroine will feel the first time she kisses William. I know about the electricity and magical whispers and divine flutters. The rising and falling and rushing of every cell of her being as the sun appears over the horizon, casting a glowing light on the shadowy man who reluctantly welcomed her to a new life.
Or something a little less overwritten, I guess.
10
JACK IRONS
The Departure by Emmett Ford (The Jack Irons Series, Book Six) – Prologue
They had a train to catch and a killer to outrun, but Jack Irons couldn’t say no to this woman. His primary goal had been to protect her for two weeks now. Within hours of meeting her, his secondary goal had become to protect his heart—while also clearly explaining to her why she was wrong about absolutely everything. Both goals were complicated by an inability to stop kissing her and a profound need to see her naked.
They were at Grand Central Terminal in New York, but they weren’t anywhere near Track 37, and that was a problem. This woman was a problem. She was the problem and the solution.
Fifteen days ago, Jack Irons had never heard of Catalina Calida. He’d never seen her close her eyes and sway her hips to the music in her head as if no one around her was watching. He’d never heard her laugh at one of his terrible jokes at a pitch that startled neighborhood cats, never fallen asleep to the sound of her breathing or wondered how he could prove to her that not every man was like her former husband.
By now, he had made love to her countless times in ten different cities, danced with her to “The Way You Look Tonight” in the middle of a diner in a desert. He had watched the sunrise from a mountaintop after skinny-dipping in a lake and drowning the man who’d been sent to kidnap her.
Catalina was trouble with a capital T from the minute he first laid eyes on her, and he hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her since.
So here he was, hand in hand with this woman who was leading him down the ramp toward the Oyster Bar. She’d explained the peculiar phenomenon of the Whispering Gallery to him in the cab. Because the tiles were set so close together, because of the curve of the domed ceiling and the lack of vents and carpets, one person’s quiet voice was trapped in a corner and had to travel up the walls from one side of the arch to another—because the sound had nowhere else to go.
Like those sound waves, Jack had nowhere else to go but where Catalina led him.
&nbs
p; “You’re gonna get us both killed,” he’d told her when she’d insisted they stop by this place before getting on the train.
“We’ve been on the verge of getting killed every day since you met me. You’re gonna break my heart if you don’t do this one thing before we leave here,” she said. She didn’t even pout the way most women would. Everything was a statement of fact with this woman. “You’ve run and jumped across rooftops in Oceanside chasing a guy who tried to steal my wallet. You’ve broken a man’s neck to stop him from attacking me. You landed a plane when the pilot was shot, even though you’d never flown one before. But you won’t take a one-minute detour to do something romantic with me?”
There’d only been one other woman he’d ever done anything romantic with, and he was realizing he hadn’t thought of her for days, until now. But the guilt was almost gone. He’d kept warm by the glowing embers of his guilt by the time he’d met Catalina. Now it was ash. His love for his wife was an eternal flame, but this thing he felt for Catalina had ignited his soul. He didn’t yet know if it was love or a siren’s call to his final destination, but it was something.
“This is it,” she said, letting go of his hand and skipping over to one corner while gesturing for him to stand in another corner about thirty feet away. He surveyed the area, keeping an eye out for the red-haired man with the scar. There were dozens of people passing through the Dining Concourse, minding their own business. He’d have to pay attention to the entrance from 42nd Street between them. “Stick your face into the corner,” she commanded.
After surveying the area one more time, he did as he was told.
“Now whisper something sweet to me,” he heard her say, as if she were right next to him.
“One minute, that’s all we have, darlin’,” he drawled because he’d learned early on that she paid more attention to him when he played up the Southern accent and called her darlin’.
“One minute starting now,” she said. “Get on with it. Don’t hold back.”
“Your ass looks hot in those jeans” is what came out of his mouth. He paused for laughter, but it didn’t come. “You’re the most beautiful woman in every city you’re in, inside and out, Catalina. You dazzle me.”
“That’s more like it.”
“You dazzle and puzzle and frazzle me, and one day, I swear, I’ll set you straight.”
“One day I might let you.”
“You’re a whole lot of woman.”
“And you’re almost enough man for me.” The sound of her voice changed whenever she smirked, and he liked it.
Jack looked over his shoulder to give her the side-eye and quickly scanned the doors and people around them.
“Tell me one more secret,” she said. “And then I’ll tell you something.”
“I’ve been trying to save your life for two weeks, but the truth is you’re the one who’s saving mine.”
“Oh, Jack…”
“Tell me your secret. Hurry up.”
“Okay. Here it is. I’ve wanted to tell you this for a week, Jack. The truth is when I first met you, I—"
“You what?” Jack said into the corner.
“She knew she’d be mine again, eventually…” whispered a deep, menacing voice.
Jack spun around, pistol drawn and aimed directly at the red-haired man with the scar. Women screamed. People ran—some dropped to the floor. But Catalina was frozen, staring across the gallery at him because the man had one arm gripped tight around her waist and a gun to her head.
Jack wanted to know what Catalina was going to say. He would find out. But he’d have to kill yet another man first. He just didn’t know how he was going to do it yet.
Yeah, all right. That works.
You’ll have to let the publisher know it’s a little off-brand for our series, but it’s Jack Irons, so fuck ’em. A little sexier and more romantic than some readers might be comfortable with, but it’s still a thriller. The heart of every story is a love story, or so I’ve heard.
It’s not as shitty as the other attempts. Definitely needs a good polish. Obviously, Chapter One will flash back to when he first met Catalina, and I’d bet anything you don’t have a fucking clue where things are headed because you’re a hack who doesn’t outline. But I can ride with this.
Good job.
I’m glad you’re finally inspired. You should have fucked her. Not judging. I mean, we both know that I would have, but I’m a badass former military man who kills people and you’re a giant pussy.
Now go jerk it to Fiona and then take a fucking nap, will you? You had a big night, and you’ve got a big day ahead of you today.
11
EMMETT
Fuck you, Jack.
I’m inspired. I didn’t fuck Fiona because I actually like her and I want to stay inspired. I want to do bad, bad, dirty bad things to that woman. And I’ve already jerked it to her twice since I got home at seven. But I’m not ready to deal with the consequences of having sex with her yet. I don’t want to let go of the magic of our first night together yet. If that makes me a giant pussy, then I’m a giant fucking pussy.
But fuck you, Jack.
What a difference a few hours can make.
Yesterday I woke up dreading yet another day of staring at the monitor, trying to find a way into a story about a widower who’s ready for love again. I couldn’t conjure up a love interest for him in my imagination, and I didn’t have a muse. Didn’t even want one.
Today I’m lying in bed at one thirty in the afternoon with a hard-on and a smile, thinking about Fiona Walker’s pretty face and the way she kissed me. I’m thinking about her perfect ass in those jeans and those perky tits that just looked so young and fun and happy to see me. I need to get my hands and mouth and tongue all over her. I need to be inside her, and I want to know how she’ll look at me when she realizes just how good I’ve made her feel. I need to stop thinking about her. I can’t beat off three times in six hours. I’m not a teenager.
I’m a cliché, it turns out. A man who likes a woman who’s a decade younger than him. But fuck it. Clichés sell. I’m the family sellout.
I need to get up and deal with the voicemails. One from my father, who only said to call him back because he has something urgent he needs to discuss with me. One from my editor asking when he can see pages, followed by one from my agent telling me that my editor needs to see pages soon because my publisher wants an update.
The reviews for my last book weren’t great, and paperback sales were down from the last release. But it was still a best seller and the studio still optioned it. Last I heard, they don’t have a good script yet, so they’re going to wait for the next book. Not my fault their hack screenwriters can’t figure out how to write a decent screenplay from my source material. It hardly matters how successful my debut was or how many units the Jack Irons series as a whole has sold worldwide—as soon as the publishers start to sense a decline in interest, they get nervous. My family starts to feel sorry for me—which is hilarious. I have a best-selling book series that’s been adapted to a hit movie franchise, and I’m still the disgrace in a long line of Pulitzer Prize–winning authors and MacArthur Fellowship genius grant recipients. My sister gets a free pass because she was an attorney for a nonprofit.
I’ll always be the guy who lost his fiancée to leukemia and then sold his soul for a seven-figure book deal.
But not today.
Today, I’m the guy who made out with a twenty-five-year-old woman on a park bench at sunrise and discovered there’s still magic to be found in Manhattan, if you’re open to it.
Magic and a four-foot metal cock.
Which is exactly what my dick feels like right now.
A magical four-foot metal cock brought back to life by a quirky enchantress with bangs and nipples that won’t quit.
But I’m getting out of bed.
While I wait for the coffee to brew, I fire off an email to my agent, telling him to let my editor know that I’ll have pages for him in a w
eek. I tell him that this book is a bit of a departure for me tonally but that it’s a Jack Irons book and that’s all the publisher needs to know. I might not be a badass former military man who kills people, but I know how to tell people to fuck off without actually telling them to fuck off.
And since I will require coffee before calling my dad back, I will text Fiona to let her know I’m thinking about her. I don’t have to act cool and wait three days to text her. I’m Emmett fucking Ford. The New York Times best-selling author who wants to get into her pants but also doesn’t because he wants to stay inspired.
ME: Hi. It’s me. The guy you straddled on a park bench this morning.
Five minutes later, I get a reply.
FIONA: Which park bench? It was a long morning.
ME: The one who whispered sweet nothings to you and your cock at Grand Central.
FIONA: Ahh. Milkshake Guy. Yes, I seem to recall that I enjoyed kissing you.
ME: I recall taking great pleasure in kissing you as well. You get some sleep?
FIONA: Some. You?
ME: Some. Can I see you again tonight?
FIONA: Maybe.
ME: Good.
FIONA: I’m working a double shift until nine.
ME: I’ll come get you and take you out for a late dinner.
FIONA: I think I’d enjoy that.
ME: Yeah, I don’t care if you enjoy it or not. I just want to see you.
FIONA: Fair enough. I shall allow you to meet me at 9:05.
ME: Fuck that. I’ll be there at 8:55. Get excited.
FIONA: I’ll work on it.
ME: Do that. Text me the deets.
ME: Or whatever the kids call it nowadays.
FIONA:
ME: Kindly inform me of the particulars via text messaging system.
FIONA:
The Love Interest Page 6
