Page 59 of Hot Nights in Morocco
“Hey! Give that back, it’s mine!”
But he only jerks it further out of reach.
I scowl at him, tugging the front of my robe together in protest at his high-handed behavior. “What’s going on, Jake?”
“Turns out, my expensive education failed me twice,” he says mildly. “This thing is littered with spelling mistakes. Why spoil a perfectly pleasant evening by finding out the man you’re fucking is an intellectual anticlimax? Come and have a shower with me instead. I insist.” He holds out his other hand to me.
It’s not a request. He’s wielding sex like a higher authority, and it takes me right back to Cassie’s trailer all those weeks ago.
“Don’t try and sidetrack me,” I huff, forcing my gaze to stay above his waist. He’s naked with a semi, and it’s very distracting. “I know what you’re doing. You know I’m powerless to resist you without any clothes on.”
He cocks his head to one side. “Is that so?”
“I mean it, Jake. Don’t manipulate me. I don’t like it.”
Something in my voice makes him pause. I watch him contemplating my words and the potential of a history behind them.
“Please. Give it back to me.”
“No.” He returns the envelope to my laptop bag. “Save it for the next time the shit hits the fan.”
“What’s that supposed to— Oh!”
He lunges for me and tips me neatly over his left shoulder.
“Put me down!” I shriek, pounding my fists against his perfect, naked, unyielding ass.
“Not until you promise to do as you’re told.”
“When have I ever done that?” I scoff, wriggling frantically.
He stops to consider this before lowering me back to the ground and pulling me against his body. “What if I asked nicely, for once?” he croons, taking my face between his hands.
The effect on me is instantaneous. “Okay.”
He smirks and lets go. “That was easier than expected. I should be nice more often. Just don’t expect it for the rest of the evening. There’s nothing nice about how I’m going to fuck you in this shower.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
We journey back to Erizo the following day, tired but replete. The last twelve hours have inspired a subtle change in both of us. It’s smoothed away some of our spikiness. We’re more relaxed in each other’s company. It’s as if we’ve passed the first test of something that neither of us can define.
With my head resting on his shoulder, I gaze out at the tinted view below. Morocco is a place of muted color and hidden treasures. I’m coming back to life here. London was my prison, and I feel like I’m finally breaking free.
“How old were you when you made your first movie?” I ask him, dragging my thoughts away from the window.
Jake stops tapping on his iPad and reaches for the glass of scotch next to it. “Twenty-one. Straight out of college.” He grimaces as he takes a sip. “Some pretentious, avant-garde, indie bore-fest that shall remain nameless and profitless.”
“It clearly didn’t have an appreciative enough audience.”
“Not much to appreciate.” He takes another sip.
“Did your father like it?”
Jake stiffens at first, but he’s getting used to my mini-inquisitions. He shakes his head. “Never saw it. If it wasn’t made by Global, he wasn’t interested.”
The pretty flight attendant pauses to offer us another drink. I watch her cheeks redden as she turns to address Jake. Damn.Does he have this affect on every woman?
“Glass of water, please,” I say loudly.
