Page 42 of The Last Good Man

“You don’t know that.”

“Oh. ButI do,” he says, and I feel his fingers above my knee right under my hem.

I jump and swat his hand away.

He laughs like a dick.

“See. I fucking told you,”hedrawls. “It was your first time with him,andyou got none.”

I bite my lip again until I taste blood. Never in my life have I found a man so funny so quickly.

I’m sure it’s an accident.

He can’t be so funny. Or stubborn. Or both.

“He couldn’t get it up?” he offers while my cheeks hurt from pushing back a laugh.

I suck in a short breath.

“He got it up?” he murmurs, a grin tugging at his lips.

He looks at me, washed with disbelief, his eyes laughing. “You saw it?” he presses further and slaps his thigh with his inked hand. “Man, I was so fucking close… I thought my timing was right. I didn’t want you to see it,” he says, a lazy smile tilting his lips as he slowly veers his car toward my place.

The fact that he knows exactly where I live has somehow become irrelevant.

On a different note, I can’t believe we’re talking about Thomas’s manhood like it’s some pet.

“You know…” I say, holding too much air in my chest. “You want awholelot from me, considering you haven’t even given me your name.”

He looks at me, a delicious smile splashed across his face as if he’s gotten me exactly what he wanted.

Again.

“Sorry, babe. My name is Jax London,” he says, formally introducing himself. “And you must be…”

He holds his hand out for me.

I ignore it.

“You probably know who I am,” I say, glancing away as he pulls his car to a stop in front of my building.

It's not very different from Thomas’s building, except it’s not that big, and my apartment is smaller.

“No. I don’t,” he says, and I bring my eyes to his.

His hand is still there.

“No hand?” he teases.

I place mine in his.

He tenderly holds it, wrapping his fingers around it, his heat entering my skin.

Something is so familiar in his touch, like a memory that never happened, fueling a sensation of closeness I’ve rarely felt.

Perhaps because he holds my hand with purpose, mystified to a degree.

“Your name,” he says, insisting he doesn’t know my full name.

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