Page 37 of Hot Nights in Morocco
“I meant afterward.” He drops my arm and returns his hands to his pockets. “Christ, you don’t make this easy, do you?”
Neither do you, Jake. Neither do you.
I take a step away to open up a little distance between us. It’s a compromise, of sorts. Half of my heart is pleading with me to tumble into his arms again. The other half is boarding that plane back to London already.
“This was meant to be a one-time thing. I don’t do…this.” He gestures between us, scowling in distaste. “We’re like a fucking car crash unfolding, and I can’t have distractions in my life right now.”
“This wasn’t exactly what I planned, either, Jake. I came here to get my life on track. The wheels are spinning for me, too, you know.”
“I thought you only took the job to irritate your mother?” His lips start to twitch.
“That too,” I huff. “And you’re a brave man bringing her up again after what happened last night.”
“You don’t work like other women. Someone typed up your instruction manual in Chinese. I wish I could see inside that irritating-as-fuck mind of yours.”
“No, you don’t.” I say quickly.
“Come here,” he says, beckoning me over to him.
“Why?”
His eyes are smoldering at me again and my heart rate just got the memo. “Because it’s time for show and tell.” He herds me behind the nearest stone cabin and out of sight of the children.
“Jake, I really don’t—” Before I can finish, he’s pulling me into his arms and smashing our mouths together, kissing me hungrily and nicking my lower lip with his teeth. I cry out in surprise and his tongue takes full advantage, besieging my mouth, as he has every other part of me, the pendulum swinging from hate to lust so violently.
“Okay, you’ve shown, now tell,” I say with a gasp when we finally break for air.
His hands linger on my face, as though he can’t bring himself to break contact with me. My lips are burning like kerosene. Over his shoulder I can see a solitary light in the distance, flashing on and off like a beacon of hope. Is that for us, I wonder? Do car crashes get happy endings?
“I blurred the lines for you,” he says huskily. “I couldn’t help myself. Christ, you have this spark inside that makes me want to screw you into next week.”
“I thought you hated me,” I whisper.
He shakes his head. “Not hate. Definitely not hate. Although my life would be a hell of a lot easier if I did.”
He pulls me back to him again, and I’m a willing hostage. There’s a strength in Jake that broken souls like mine will always be drawn to.
“I’d fuck you right now if I could.” He starts to tease hot urgent kisses along my forehead. “Would you like that, Books? For me to push you up against this wall, strip you down, and take you hard? Out here in the middle of North Africa, with no one but the stars to hear you scream?”
I choke on my answer, desire pooling between my legs as his knuckles skim the small dimple below my mouth.
“So we’re a two-night thing now, are we?” I somehow manage.
He frowns before answering. “I’ve been a shit to you. I’m sorry.”
“Is that another apology?”
His fingertips stray to my forehead before moving downward to trace the hollow arc of my cheekbone. “So it would seem.”
This man’s a drug, I think hazily. He’s a powerful one-two punch wrapped up in a riddle. His effect on my body is undeniable… Can he feel me trembling? I’m desperate for him to kiss me again.
“Mr. Dalton?”
We spin away from each other in surprise. Jake lets go of me and my world is suddenly so much colder for it. Hassan has approached unseen and is hovering uncomfortably at the edge of our embrace.
“Is it time to go?” Jake asks.
The Moroccan nods. “If we leave now, we can reach Erizo before sunrise.”
