I opened my mouth to say I was glad, but the words died in my throat as he stepped inside my apartment, closed the door behind him, and settled his hands on my hips.
“Now,” he murmured, gaze dropping back down to my chest, “about that promise I made you.”
“Which one?” I asked distractedly, because my brain had been replaced with a screaming gif of his muscles and that damn stare.
“The one about making you beg.” His fingers came to my chest and skimmed the bare skin where lace met cleavage, slow enough to make me shiver. “The one about making you fall apart.” His mouth brushed my ear. “Multiple times.”
I reached for his neck and moved into him, loving the guttural sound he made when our bodies connected. His eyes met mine. His hand shoved into my hair. And then he was kissing me with the kind of white-hot, raw need that I’d only ever known with him.
If you asked me how long he kissed me, I’d tell you forever. It felt like that long. When he ended the kiss, I desperately wanted to pull his mouth right back to mine and just keep going. Forever.
“Fucking gorgeous,” he said, holding my face with both hands while his eyes searched mine. “There’s not gonna be much sleeping tonight, darlin’.”
Every nerve in my body went nuclear, blowing past safe operating levels. I wanted his mouth on mine so bad it hurt. I wanted his hands everywhere at once, feral and demanding, marking me up so I’d feel him tomorrow. I wanted all of him. Skin, breath, heartbeat.
Instead of forming actual words, I grabbed for his jacket in a way I hoped was sexy but probably looked like someone frantically peeling a banana.
Look, I need to explain something here. I’ve slept with exactly three guys in my entire life. And trust me, each one went through more rigorous evaluation than Johnson’s code reviews, which, considering how many times I’ve rejected his patches, is saying something. I have actual spreadsheets analysing compatibility factors. Yes, I know how that sounds. No, I’m not ashamed. Okay, maybe a little ashamed. Especially since I was wrong about all of them. But the point is, I don’t do this casually. I don’t give myself to just anyone.
But Jake? Jake bypassed all my careful algorithms and data analysis. He crashed through my firewall like it wasn’t even there, leaving me completely defenceless against the way his hands felt on my skin and the dangerous promise in his eyes.
And then his mouth was on my neck and all thoughts of data and spreadsheets scattered. His hands slid lower, and oh god, no amount of statistical analysis could have prepared me for how that felt.
“Eden,” he growled against my skin, “you’re thinking too hard.”
“Can’t help it,” I gasped as his teeth grazed my collarbone. “It’s my default setting.”
He pulled back to look at me, and the heat in his eyes did too many things to me all at once. Good thing he was holding me up, because apparently standing had become an advanced skill I no longer possessed.
“Then I’m not doing my job right.” His husky voice shot straight to my core. “Let me fix that.”
My inner monologue was having a complete meltdown. HE’S SCRAMBLING MY BRAIN. WHO WILL DEBUG JOHNSON’S CODE IF I LOSE ALL HIGHER FUNCTION???
But then his hands came to my breasts and suddenly Johnson’s code was the last thing on my mind. Which, considering how much of my life revolves around fixing that disaster, is really saying something about Jake’s ability to make the rest of the world irrelevant.
“Still thinking about work?” he murmured against my ear.
“What’s work?” I managed.
“That’s better.” His fingers traced patterns on my skin that felt like he was branding me with every stroke. “Now, about making you forget everything except my name . . .”
Look, I’d love to tell you I maintained some self-respect here. That I didn’t completely melt when he picked me up and carried me into my bedroom. That I didn’t make embarrassing sounds when he laid me on my bed and followed me down, his body pressing mine into the mattress in ways that made my toes curl.
But we all know that would be a lie. Especially when he looked down at me, his blue eyes dark with hunger, and reached for the hem of my nightie.
I arched up against him, desperate for more contact, my hands trying to go everywhere at once.
“Patience, darlin’,” he said against my lips, though the edge in his voice said his own control wasn’t as solid as he pretended. “I wanna take my time with you.”
His mouth trailed down my neck, lingering on the pulse point that beat frantically for him. I could feel his smile against my skin, a smug acknowledgment of the havoc he was wreaking on my senses.
“Jake,” I whispered, because it was the only word I could remember, the only sound I could make.
He slid his hand beneath my nightie and pushed it up. The silk whispered over my skin as he eased it over my head and tossed it aside.
His gaze burned down my body, unhurried, like he was cataloguing every inch he intended to ruin. I’d never felt so naked in my life, not just physically, but stripped down to nerve endings, to want.
“Fuck, Eden,” he rasped, his eyes dragging back to mine. “You’re so goddamn perfect, it hurts.”
