The Closer You Come

Pleasuring me...and herself.

The knowledge nearly sent him hurtling down a spiral of bliss. He cupped her nape and urged her into a faster rhythm.

“That’s the way, angel. So good. You’re sucking me just right.”

As he hit the back of her throat again, she groaned, and the vibration sped down his length, into his sac, and oh...damn...a fire flicked to life there, smoldering, growing... Up and down she bobbed on him, never slowing, only working him faster and faster. Every muscle in his body began to clench on bone, the fire in his sac riding up his length...and finally shooting into her mouth.

She swallowed everything he fed her, still moaning against him, the vibrations little flashes of pure ecstasy.

When at last he’d emptied, she licked her way free of him and glanced up. Her eyes were bright, her features soft and tender. Her lips swollen and red.

He bent down, took her by the wrist and eased her up. She swayed as her knees wobbled, and he brought her wet fingers close to his mouth.

“Tell me how hard you came,” he said.

Color flooded her cheeks as she nodded. “So hard I might have broken my soul.”

“Good girl.” He sucked each finger into his mouth, savoring the taste of her honey.

She shivered. “By the way,” she said, dabbing daintily at her mouth when he released her. “You aren’t paying me for today’s work.”

As he tugged up his zipper, he said, “Why?”

“Uh, because you aren’t paying me on the days we have sex during work hours. I’ll feel like a hooker.”

Pain radiated through his jaw as his teeth ground together. He got where she was coming from, but he didn’t like it. “Well, congrats. Today is a federal holiday at Chez Hollister. National Blow Job Day. No work, plenty of play, as well as a paycheck.”

Her eyes narrowed to tiny slits. “No. Utterly unacceptable.”

He wanted to say, “This is the way things are going to be, honey. Get used to it.” But the need to make her happy superseded everything else. “Fine. I won’t pay you, but you won’t work, either.” And oh, hell. West and Beck were going to kill him. They lived for her sandwiches and casseroles.

Like I don’t.

She made something new every day. There was the corn dog casserole. And the tropical ham casserole. The bacon and blue cheese casserole. And his personal favorite, the turkey and white cheddar tetrazzini casserole.

The sandwiches were just as exotic. There was the one made with a doughnut rather than slices of bread. The one she made with small squares of meats and cheeses to resemble a Rubik’s Cube. The one she called the Temple of Southern Doom, with two large pieces of chicken-fried steak stuffed with mashed potatoes, yeast rolls and a scoop of bacon gravy.

His mouth watered, and for a moment, he almost wished he’d waited to kick off National Blow Job Day until after dinner.

“All right,” she said at last. “I’ll take the day off.”

He helped her right her clothing, noticed some scrapes on her knees. “You’re injured,” he said and frowned. “What happened and when?”

“I fell on the way to the auto shop.”

Damn it. He never would have let her go down on him if he’d known she was injured.

He picked her up and placed her on the couch. After he’d found the first-aid box, he crouched in front of her to clean and bandage her knees.

“Do they hurt?” he asked.

“A little. Distract me.”

“How?”

“Well...you can tell me if you’ve ever been in love.”

“I have.”

“How old were you?”

Leery of the subject—the time frame—he said, “I dated her in high school. She took off when I was eighteen.”

“Do you love her still?”

“No.” His feelings for Daphne had been true and solid, and because she’d been the only relationship he’d ever had, he’d thought of her often over the lonely years in prison. Also the reason he’d thought to reconnect with her after he’d gotten out. But his feelings had faded completely, nothing but an echo of a past he’d tried to forget.

What he felt for Brook Lynn burned hot and wild. He could love her. Madly, deeply.

But could she love him? The real him?

He would never know...unless he told her the truth. The realization slammed into him, undeniable. The longer he kept his secrets—even at her own request—the more she would resent his silence. The more he would feel the weight of it hanging over them.

The sense of urgency returned.

And what if she found out before he could tell her? What if she heard of his sins from someone else? This was a small town—once people found out, it would be impossible to keep it quiet. Would she ever be willing to listen to Jase’s side of the story then?

He peered at her, hoping for understanding, dreading rejection. “Brook Lynn. I have to tell you something.”

She tensed, as if afraid of what he had to say, then released a resigned sigh. She traced her finger along his jawline. “What you were going to tell me before?”

He nodded, knowing he had to do it, had to say it, before he lost his nerve.

Like ripping off a bandage. Here goes.

“I spent the last nine years in prison.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

JASE’S WORDS REVERBERATED in Brook Lynn’s mind. I spent the last nine years in prison.

She laughed at the joke. Because he was joking. Right? He had to be joking. Her new boyfriend couldn’t be an ex-con. He couldn’t have done something so terrible he’d had to spend nearly a decade behind bars.