Page 48 of Burn for You (Slow Burn 1)
I followed her gaze out the window. A man sat in a chair on the front porch of her house. When he saw her, he rose and stood next to the door, waiting.
At one o’clock in the morning, there was a man waiting for her to come home. A young, handsome man by the looks of it. Though the porch light was dim, it was bright enough to see that.
Shit.
Crushed by disappointment and an irrational, unwarranted jealousy, I said stiffly, “Your boyfriend?”
Bianca’s head shake was violent. She recoiled from the window. “Ex-boyfriend. So very, very ex.”
Her disgusted tone revealed exactly how she felt about the man on the porch. Obviously whatever had happened between them had left her angry, bitter, and with zero desire to see him again. My jealousy was replaced by outrage and a need to protect her that was so strong I almost snapped the steering wheel in half.
“I’ll get rid of him,” I growled. I reached for the door, but Bianca stopped me.
“No.” She turned to me with an intensity I’d never seen in her before. She laid her hand on my forearm. “I have a better idea.”
Then her gaze dropped to my mouth, she leaned toward me, and my heart stopped dead in my chest.
FOURTEEN
BIANCA
Before you judge me, let me just say in my defense that my brain wasn’t firing on all cylinders on account of the sexual tension between Jackson and me in the kitchen, fright over how erratically he’d been driving, making him laugh (a beautiful, unexpected sound), having his big, warm hand settle on my shoulder in a gentle yet distinctly possessive grip, and seeing Trace standing on my front porch in the middle of the night.
So yes. I kissed Jackson.
Hard.
That wasn’t the bad part. His lips were soft, his face was smooth, and he smelled even better up close. The bad part was that he didn’t kiss me back.
When it became clear after several long moments that he wasn’t opening his mouth, and had in fact frozen stiff as a corpse left out in the snow, I withdrew a few inches and sheepishly looked at hi
m.
He said, “Did you just kiss me to try to make him jealous?”
I said, “Um.”
We stared at each other. I felt like every one of my nerve endings had been dipped in lighter fluid and set on fire.
He lifted his hand and slowly brushed his thumb over my lower lip. His voice an octave lower, he said, “You caught me off guard. Let’s try it again. And this time put your hand on my chest so it looks more authentic.”
I grumbled, “Lord, you’re bossy—”
But then I shut up because Jackson took my mouth and I couldn’t think, let alone speak.
He tasted like bourbon and secrets and frustrated desire and kissed like he was starving. It started out slow, his tongue gently parting my lips, his big hands cradling my head, but quickly turned hot and greedy. When I curled my hand into his hair and pulled him closer, he made a low, masculine sound deep in his throat that might have been the sexiest noise I’d heard in my entire life.
After what felt like forever, he pulled away first. We were both breathing hard.
I opened my eyes and looked at him and became concerned that my panties might spontaneously combust from the look he was giving me.
He whispered, “God, I hope you have a lot of exes you want to make jealous.”
Intensely aroused and equally shocked by my behavior—I don’t have a habit of randomly attack-kissing men—I sat back and smoothed my hands over my hair. I said, “Only the one, unfortunately.”
He jumped on that faster than a hot knife goes through butter. “Unfortunately?”
Face flaming, I groaned.
