Page 14 of Taste Of You

Five

He’s taking me home. Me. Home.

Jesus Christ, I’ll be dead before we make it out to his car.

I’ve dreamed of a moment like this every day for the past few weeks. Of the way his hand would feel against mine, his touch warm with a bit of roughness from days of hard work. Because Jet Avery works hard—isn’t prickly about getting dirty or lending a hand. He’s known to be hot AF, a good boss, and chivalrous to any woman on his staff.

We aren’t allowed—yes, allowed—to pick up anything heavier than a tray of food and drinks.

Some would say it’s sexist, while I appreciate it. The respect is mutual between him and the staff, while I look at him with far more than admiration.

I want him.

Want him to look down at me with affection and lust in his warm brown eyes; a burning want that mirrors my own. To be there for me when I feel all alone.

Because I do. All the time.

And while I never thought in a million years that he’d want me, the last few days have shown that a small part of him does. That maybe there is a chance for more.

If he ever forgives you.

Nobody likes a liar, no matter how good the reason behind it is.

Dammit, there goes my dream. The small bubble I’ve let myself get carried away in since we met.

As much as it pains me to admit, we can’t be. Not when my life isn’t my own. Not when I have someone that needs me—comes before my own desires.

“I’ll never let him hurt you, sweet girl.” Jet cups my face, his expression so intense as we stand outside the bar’s back entrance. He’s full of determination. “Do you believe that? That I’ll keep you safe?”

“I do, but—” He silences me with a kiss to my nose. Just a tiny peck, but I feel it all the way down to my toes. The innocent touch leaves me almost breathless, my skin a map full of goose bumps and shivers.

“Then nothing. Let me handle it.” I’m powerless against his touch, his very presence, and all I can do is nod. I forget the reasons why this is a bad idea. “Good girl.” His praise, those two words, send a tingle down my center that causes my core to clench, throb, and my panties to dampen.

It’s an automatic reaction. Natural. Happens each time he so much as smiles at me.

If he notices my reaction, Jet doesn’t mention it. Instead, he leads me toward his car with his hand low on my back. Fingers flexing every few steps, his pinky sweeps across the bare flesh where my shirt has risen.

Warmth spreads through me at his firm touch.

It’s both heaven and hell having his skin on mine. Almost unbearable to deny this pull.

He’s close, so close that I can pull his manly scent into my lungs and brand him a part of my soul.

That woodsy with a hint of citrus cologne that he wears day in and day out has become a weakness of mine. It never fails to make my pulse quicken, to pull a whimper from deep within my core.

“Get in, Millie. Let’s get you home.” I’ve been so lost within my lust for him that I miss us coming to a stop in front of his car. Miss him opening my door, and then guiding me forward.

I’m on autopilot and do as he asks, getting in, but before I can buckle myself, he’s there. Jet reaches over me and does so himself.

His warm eyes are on mine the entire time, asking me a question I’ve yet to decipher. But then again, that’s what happens when you’re young, younger than he knows, and inexperienced.

I have to be the world’s last virgin without her hymen, and I don’t know if that will be a blessing or a curse. One small tumble, a wrong landing when I was fourteen and at a gymnastics meet, caused the tear. I’ve never touched a balance beam again after that.

My sister used to tease me with this. Said I’m lucky, that I’ll be skipping the ritual that all women go through when they’re intimate with their partners for the first time.

Me? I think it’s a pain.

Makes me nervous just having to explain. To tell someone that I landed with the wooden beam between my legs and bled on impact. That on my way down, I saw stars and finished off the embarrassing experience with a broken ankle and sore vagina once I made impact with the mat below.

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