Page 27 of Riding Dirty for Christmas

Damn. That’s incredible.

Me: You’re just saying that.

Jack: I own a bar. No reason to BS about fashion.

I smile, running my fingers over the pencil lines.

Jack: You light up when you talk about creating things. Send me another pic?

A flutter starts in my stomach.

Me: What kind of pic?

The typing bubbles appear and disappear twice before his response comes through.

Jack: Dealer’s choice. But I wouldn’t say no to one with the artist in frame.

Me: Trying to get selfies out of me at 3 AM? Smooth.

Jack: Appreciating talent. And the talented.

Me: Careful. Someone might think you’re flirting.

Jack: Would that be so terrible?

I bite my lip, heat crawling up my neck as I remember his mouth there hours ago.

Me: Probably. Given the circumstances.

Jack: Probably. Still waiting for that pic though.

Me: What kind of pic did you have in mind?

Jack: Surprise me.

I snap a quick photo of another design, this one showing a fitted jacket with architectural details.

There. That’s all you’re getting tonight.

Jack: The jacket’s gorgeous. But I was hoping for something else.

Heat blooms in my chest.

Me: In your dreams.

Jack: Can’t blame a guy for trying. My dreams lately have been pretty interesting.

My fingers trace the collar of my silk pajama top. My thumb hovers over the camera.

It would be so easy to undo a few buttons and give him a peek at what he’s missing. I settle back against the window seat cushions, a wicked smile playing at my lips.

After what we did at the bar, a suggestive photo almost seems tame.

Jack: Still thinking?

Me: Maybe I’m considering options. Though you’ve already seen quite a bit tonight.

I bite my lip, picturing his reaction.

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