Page 17 of False Start, Real Passion

“Jaxon, what are you doing?” I whisper.

“Taking this to a whole different level.”

He rests his hand on my thigh.

Here? NOW?!

Suddenly the booth feels too small. I stare into his eyes, feeling his fingers create circles that move closer and closer.

“No,” I whisper. “We can’t…”

His lips finally meets mine and the kiss…damn, the kiss is slow and deep. It fills a hunger that I wanted to ignore since I met him.

His hands cups my cheeks, pulling me closer. I want to moan and my body melts into his.

He takes it a step further.

The booth feels like our own private world and the rest of the restaurant fades away.

His fingers inch dangerously close to where I need him most, even if I continue to deny it.

“West, we need to keep this professional.”

“Can’t we just... enjoy the moment?”

His fingers feel feather-light and it is enough to make me tremble. “No,” I reply. “We can’t.”

They inch closer and closer until they find their mark. They slip in and brush against my wetness, moving with expert precision. I force my eyes shut.

“Sloane,” he says. “Look at me.”

I open my eyes and the look he gives me is more than enough to forget why I’m there in the first place.

He then pulls out and lifts his fingers, just underneath his nose, and breathes in deep. “Damn, you smell good.”

Dangerous, my mind whispers. This man is dangerous.

***

The cool night air is a relief, a momentary escape from the heat of Jaxon’s gaze. But it’s short-lived. As we slide into the car, the atmosphere shifts, thickens with the weight of unspoken tension.

Jaxon’s jaw is tight as he navigates the city streets, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. I pretend not to notice the way his eyes flick to my legs when I cross them.

I try to ignore him but it’s damn near impossible. His presence fills the car, fills my senses. The scent of his cologne, the sound of his breathing, the heat of his body so close to mine.

He pulls up to my building and kills the engine. He doesn’t unlock the doors. Not yet. Instead, he turns to me.

“Want me to walk you up?”

The question hangs in the air, loaded with unspoken implications.

“No, thank you.” My voice trembles slightly.

He leans closer.

“Thanks for dinner,” I say.

“Tori,” he says, his voice low and smooth, the kind of tone that can melt steel. I turn to look at him, and the moment our eyes meet, I’m lost. The way he looks at me—like I’m the only thing in the world that matters—makes my heart race. “I’m not done with you.”

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