Page 23 of Forbidden Love Still Blooms

“But I want to.” He speaks over me; not loud, yet with such certainty it erases my voice. His hand slips from his face. He's frowning, and he wants me to see that. “Now sit.Down.”

My ass is in the chair before I can resist the urge. The rebellion in me is tied up in my new, fiercer curiosity to figure out what kind of a man Jordan Hartford is. I need to know because it's the only way to make sense of why my body is a hot mess. He's done nothing but command me around, watch me with natural intensity, and blocked me atevery single turnin my quest to remove Dez's grip from my throat.

“That's better,” he says.

“Agree to disagree,” I counter.

A cold laugh explodes from him. It's brief as a thunderclap. “Let's begin again. Did Dezmond tell you to come here?”

“No.”

“Then why did you?”

“Because I wanted to.”

Jordan frowns harder, not liking my answer. “Why isn't he here with you, then?”

“It was going to be a surprise.” That line comes out sleek as satin. It's true, after all.

“And what will you do now? Wait for him?”

“It depends.”

“On what?”

“If you're going to stay here all night. I don't need an audience, if you get my drift.” I put on a coy smile while bending at the waist, creating a deep valley between my breasts. I need to make Jordan uncomfortable. I can't harm a hair on his son's head if he's in the house. Jordan needs to leave.

But he doesn't react. “Then I should show you where his bedroom is. That way you won't end up naked in mine a second time.”

Jordan destroys my faux animal-in-heat act; I sit up so fast my spine cracks. “It was an accident, okay? One I promise not to repeat again.”

“Protesting rather hard there, aren't we, Birdie?”

“Just drawing a clear line. I told you, I'm here to see Dezmond. I want nothing to do with you.”

“You keep saying that. Over and over andover.But why do I still not believe you?”

I look up at him through my curtain of lashes. “I don't know, it's not my job to convince you. If you're so obsessed with needing to know my feelings, I guess I can fuck him in his bedroom loud enough for you to hear.” My lips quirk into a tiny smirk. “Or do you want me to fuck him right in front of you? Is that the proof you're hungry for, Jordan? Hm?”

He rises from his chair, looming over me like a mountain that's led hundreds to their doom. I'm next, I think. Why else would his hands be curling into fists, or his eyes darkening under his angled eyebrows? I know the face of a killer. Know it very very well. “Even for a bird, you're very loud,” he says. “Your mouth is filthy.”

“That's the kind of girl your son likes.”

“And you said your type is men you hate. I guess you're perfect together.”

I flinch internally. My face remains stoic. “You got it. Nice summary.”

Jordan considers me with narrowed eyes. He doesn't move closer, but it feels like he does when he reaches up to smooth his hands over his skull. I can't help picturing them reaching for me. “I thought you were different than him. My mistake, Ms. Jones.”

That formality hurts. It shouldn't—it's exactly what I need—but it fucking does. “Glad we're on the same page. What's your poison, stay or leave?” Pushing my chair out as I stand, I adjust my dress, tugging the hem that refuses to go lower than the bottom curve of my ass.

He says nothing. For too long I hunch there, playing with the fabric, too nervous to see his face. Is he scowling again? I hope he's as irritated as me. He deserves it for acting like he's better than I am. Some of this is my fault—I need him to think I'm a desperate girl looking for a good time with a wreck of a failure like Dez. But I hate this act. This costume isn't my size. I hope I can shed it soon.I need to get my hands on Dez tonight. It'll be too late by tomorrow. I can't wait.

I can't suffer the silence. Looking at Jordan's running-shoes, I toy with my heel strap. “Are you going to the Triumph Parade tomorrow?” I ask, finally daring to look at his face. What I see makes my veins stutter with waterfalls of blood.

He's gazing down at me where I half-crouch. His view down the front of my dress is perfect. This man who saw me nude less than an hour ago is eyeballing the section of my smooth breasts, the part where the dress just covers my areolas, like he's never seen a bare ankle in his life.

Desire blackens his dilated pupils. Lust creates a tent in his athletic pants—a hard-on so massive once I spot it, I can't look away.

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