Page 49 of Jersey

"What?" he asks. I watch him shake his head as if he's trying to clear his thoughts, but it takes a second longer before he's capable of pulling his eyes from the front of my robe.

It's the same one I was wearing that night I pulled open the door and found him on my front porch.

Despite having pajamas under it this time, it doesn't keep my nipples from tightening with his attention.

His lips part slightly as if he's imagining that he can still see the outlines of my nipples against the fabric.

I chance a look down, realizing that despite the conversation we're struggling through, there's something about me that affects him as well, if the sight of his erection in his jeans is any indication.

I know the best thing right now is for both of us to ignore the attraction we have for the other until it ebbs and disappears, but his eyes on me make me feel things I've never felt before.

Having his attention makes me wonder what it would be like for his fingers to run over my skin, for him to take a meaty handful of my ass as he fucks into me.

I clear my throat, pulling his gaze back up to mine, and I instantly miss their attention on the rest of my body.

"Why do you go to the club?"

His eyes lift to mine as if I've broken some unspoken rule.

"Work," he answers quickly as he sets his coffee cup on the counter before crossing the room to get closer to me. "Why do you go?"

I watch his hand as it raises, the sight of it sending a frisson of electricity down my spine so strong I can't tell if it's because I'm afraid he'll touch me or in anticipation of him actually doing so.

"It's a form of immersion therapy," I say without considering the confession. "I can't stand for people to touch me."

His hand immediately freezes, and without thinking, I reach out for it, clasping his fingers in my grip.

"But for some reason, I ache for your touch."

Instead of moving to run his hand over my skin, he remains frozen, his eyes searching mine. I can only imagine my confession feels too heavy to him for what this actually is.

Maybe he thinks touching me now is too much of a commitment, but I don't see it that way at all.

"Please," I beg when he resists me, tugging his hand closer to my body.

"Caitlyn," he whispers as if denying me is painful.

I release his hand, taking a step back, my ass bumping into the counter and making me realize he's crowding me so much, there's no way around him without some part of our bodies touching.

The knowledge sends another thrill of excitement up my spine, and more than making me afraid, it electrifies me.

"Take your bottoms off," he says, his eyes locked on my lips.

I hesitate for only a second, his intentions becoming very clear when he pulls out his wallet, producing a condom before reaching for the button and zipper of his jeans.

I swear my core clenches, angry at its emptiness as I watch his hands deftly roll the latex down his length.

"Bottoms, Caitlyn," he growls, his tone gruff.

I rush to obey, my body growing ready for him without so much as an ounce of foreplay. It's in direct contradiction to how it responds when others are touching me in the club, except when I spot him.

I shove my pajama bottoms to my feet, stepping out of them as he closes the rest of the distance.

I wait for him to touch me, but although I can feel the warmth of his breath on my neck when he leans in, he doesn't do so.

"Might as well take the rest off," he whispers into my ear, inching back when my hands turn frantic in an effort to pull my robe and pajama top off.

I moan when he inches closer, the tips of my aching breasts rubbing against his upper torso.

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