“Baby—”
She tilted her pelvis and took him inside.
Fuck. Yes.
They both hissed out a breath as he stretched her wide, the burn of him amping up her pleasure. It had been so long, and this felt so fucking right.
She jumped slightly, wrapped the other leg around him, taking him deeper.
“Fuck me, honey,” she moaned, arching back, feeling him bottom out, a harsh guttural curse vibrating through her.
Then there were no more words. No delays or hesitations.
His hands came to her ass, and he spun them, pinned her between the wall and his chest.
And then he moved.
He pounded into her, a little hard, a little rough, not smooth and sweet and gentle in the least. It was fast and intense . . . and it was the best fucking ever.
Literally.
The. Best. Fucking. Ever.
The hard circles of his shirt buttons were digging into her chest, the strap of her apron was abrading the skin of her neck, his zipper scratched her thighs . . . and those little pains didn’t take anything away. In fact, they heightened the experience, elevated it. He kept thrusting, hard and thick and hot, his scorching breath puffing against her skin, his groans vibrating through her.
“Fuck, baby,” he gritted out. “Baby, tell me you’re there with me.”
“Almost,” she panted. “I need—”
He knew what she needed even before she finished the sentence. He altered the angle of his thrusts, so that each time he bottomed out, he rubbed against her clit, and then he shifted one hand, fingers sliding along the crease of her ass, moving in, pressing against her with his thumb until he was fucking both of her holes, finger and cock moving in unison.
“I’m—” She broke off. “Jackson— Fuck!”
She was there, her orgasm exploding through her.
He ground into her once, twice, a third time and groaned, holding deep, his cock pulsing as he came inside her.
They stayed like that for a long time, Jackson still hard and planted deep, their breathing rapid and staccato, their skin sticky with sweat.
But the longer they stayed like that, the harder it was to keep her mind focused on just feeling. Memories kept creeping to the forefront of her mind. How she’d felt when he hadn’t shown up at the church. The panic of searching the hospitals. How broken she’d been after the scene in the police station.
Her breathing had been slowing, but now it started to speed up again, horror washing through her.
This was either her getting swept along with the tsunami that was Jackson or it was her taking advantage of a man’s guilt just so she could have a couple of orgasms. “You—”
Jackson moved without her finishing the sentence, slipping out, steadying her as she found her feet.
Then her panties.
She slid them up her thighs, made a grab for her jeans and yanked them up her legs.
“We shouldn’t have done that.”
He’d stolen her words, taken what she should have said.
“You’re right,” she agreed then added, “You should go.”
At the very least, she could say that.
Because if she told him to go then she wouldn’t ask him to stay.
Jackson’s eyes drifted up, moving to lock with hers, holding for a long, drawn-out moment. But he didn’t ask to stay either.
He just finished doing up his pants, straightened the cuffs of his shirt, and headed for the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. “For what it’s worth, I know that I did the wrong thing, and I’m sorry for that.” He turned the handle, opened the door. “But I’m not sorry it kept you safe.”
He stepped out into the hall, closed the wooden panel behind him.
“Not sorry,” she muttered, doing up her own pants, smoothing her apron. “That sounds about right.”
But she didn’t mean the words.
Of course, she didn’t.
And anyway, she was too wrapped up in the conflicting thoughts in her mind to really mean anything.
Was she the user or the usee?
So, instead of thinking about it further or the fact that she’d had to go to the bathroom to put in a tampon, rather than spending the remainder of the day with the reminder of Jackson dripping out from between her thighs, she took care of the problem, washed her hands, and deliberately ignored the random pulses of pleasure that continued to crop up as the hours passed.
Instead, in what was probably a sick circle of events, she spent the rest of the day making apple turnovers, the same ones she’d been making in the photograph that had torn them apart.
Only this time, there wasn’t anyone around.
Or at least there wasn’t anyone around who had the urge to shine a bright red laser on her forehead.
Molly was wrong about the last.
She just didn’t find out how wrong until much later.
The next day she woke up early, got dressed, and stumbled through her morning, the early hours feeling all that much earlier because she’d hardly slept the night before.
Jackson Davis.
Not the bad guy she’d made him out to be.
Especially when, shortly after five in the morning, as Molly was finishing up loading the case in the front of the bakery, the bell chimed over the door and a young male in an expensive suit strode inside.
“Molly Miller?” he asked, approaching the counter.
“Yes?” she replied, confusion drawing her brows together.
“These are for you from Mr. Davis.” He extended a manila envelope in her direction.
“What—?” she began to ask.
But by then she’d opened the flap and recognized what was inside.
The papers she’d had couriered to Jackson—signed, although with an addendum saying she’d bought Jackson out for a dollar instead of the fair market price she’d offered previously.
Signed.
Done.
Out of her life.
Perfect. That was exactly what she wanted.
And if she thought that perhaps, deep down, she might not actually want Jackson out of her life for good, if it were the sliver of a thought, the barest thread of a wish, Molly was great at pretending she didn’t see or feel it.
She was excellent at pretending.
She’d made it her life’s work.
Eight
Jackson, A month later
He strode out of his office after nine at night and bit back a curse when he saw the man waiting in the reception area.
“Dan,” he said, shoving his cell into his pocket and coming to a stop. “Do you take some pleasure in sneaking into my office?”
This late at night, the building was locked down, the floor to his office doubly so.
Dan shrugged. “Gotta keep your security on their toes.”
At the mention of security, one of Jackson’s expensive as hell security team members appeared in the hall, his body tensed and readied as though he were heading into battle. Jackson caught the man’s gaze and shook his head. “We’re fine.”
Dan waited until the guard left, who backed slowly down the hall with a glare at the sneaky agent, before he turned to Jackson and gestured the opposite direction.
Jackson took the hint, led the way to the corner office that had become his home away from home. His company had recently taken over the top five floors of this building, retrofitting and modifying the space, and moving in just a few weeks before.