Page 45 of Bound

Furrowed brows for half a second before a cocky smile graces that handsome face and he bends, dropping his lips to mine, and allowing me to taste his happiness. “It’s not even remotely over.”

“I—”

I’m in overwhelm. I can’t help it.

Helicopters. A fancy brunch. A tour of an exhibit in The Met. A walk through Central Park. Lunch from a tiny, hole-in-the-wall pizza joint with the crispiest—and most delicious—slice of margherita I’ve ever had the pleasure of eating.

A sunset boat tour of the Hudson with fancy cocktails.

And the whole time…

I had Jackson—the funny, nice one I saw him give to his friends and the kind, thoughtful one who knew my favorite drink, remembered my dream of riding in a helicopter. The Jackson I fantasized about.

The Jackson who’s giving me a memory I know I’ll always hold tight to.

And now?—

I’m being led between tables in a packed but shadowy restaurant, heading toward the swinging wooden door, and?—

Finding our table, right there in the kitchen.

Chefs and line cooks bustle around, clipped-out orders ringing through the space that smells like heaven.

“Too much?” Jackson asks quietly, settling his hand on the small of my back—giving me that too. The soft touches and quiet check-ins. His body coming close, his scent in my nose, his heat against my skin.

Thisistoo much—him being close, the way it makes my nerves prickle at the contact. The tingle and zip around under my skin even after I lie and shake my head, still not wanting him to stop touching me. The dampness between my legs, the flutters in my belly, the way my body wants to drift closer anytime he’s near.

It’s almost overwhelming.

And…it’s not nearly enough.

He pulls out my chair and I sink down into it, lifting up slightly as he pushes it in until I’m a reasonable distance away from my cutlery. “Good?”

I nod, finding that my mouth doesn’t want to work, that my tongue doesn’t seem able to form words.

A brush of his thumb along my bottom lip. “Beautiful,” he murmurs. “All the time, but especially in candlelight.”

Words are impossible still.

But he doesn’t wait for me to stammer my way through some.

He just brushes his thumb along my bottom lip again and then rounds the table, sitting in his own chair.

“Wine?” a server asks, appearing at my elbow.

Jackson’s eyes come to mine. “Pinot?”

I inhale sharply enough that my lungs protest.

He knows that too.

Knows everything and?—

The day. The wonderful details and conversations that flowed naturally. The touches and smiles and?—

My desperation.

My need.

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