Page 57 of Jealous Boss

Fast.

Hard.

Too deep to pull back now.

I don’t know how it’ll work. I don’t know what we’ll do when the world starts asking questions we can’t answer. But I do know this. I want more.

Of his mouth. Of his hands. Of his maddening restraint and the way he breaks it just for me.

I want to wake up to him cooking eggs in his boxers and telling me to get back in bed because he’ll bring the coffee. I want to know what he looks like on a Sunday morning and what it sounds like when he says my name while we’re fighting and how he’ll break when I call himdaddywhen we make up.

I want the mess. I want him.

And if I have to fight for it—if I have to grow sharp around the edges and challenge everyone who says this isn’t allowed—I’ll do it.

Because I don’t think you walk away from something like this.

Not when it feels like the start of everything.

Even though I see shadows of a forked road ahead, one that might not lead where I want it to.

* * *

Ethan takesme to dinner on Saturday night.

I would've preferred we stay in, but he insisted and, well, I loved the idea of dressing up, being on the arm of the hottest guy in Philly.

The restaurant is dim and expensive, with gold-dipped lighting and candle flames flickering like secrets between us. The kind of place where everyone talks quietly and the waiters glide instead of walk.

In the booth next to me, he smiles, watches me, sniffs my neck and tells me how great I smell, compliments me on the dress I'm wearing—one of the outfits that made his eyes go dark and his nostrils flare when I tried it on for him last weekend.

But he can't hide the fact that he's tense.

His jaw ripples with it every few minutes.

He hasn't taken his arm off the back of my seat since we arrived.

Every time a guy so much as glances in my direction, his hand on my shoulder tightens—subtle, but unmistakable. A thumb pressed deeper into my skin. His fingers trailing the nape of my neck.

Every proprietary little gesture saying:Mine. Mine. Mine.

I should be annoyed. I'm not. I... like it. Hell, who am I kidding?

I love it.

His other hand hasn't let go of mine since we sat down. Not even when the menus came. I had to awkwardly use my free hand to order while he calmly held onto me, thumb stroking the center of my palm like he was keeping me tethered.

"You're staring again," I murmur, smiling behind the rim of my water glass.

"I'm aware," he says darkly, eyes still fixed on the man two tables over who definitely took a second look at me when he walked past five minutes ago.

"Ethan," I say softly.

He looks at me. That focus—sharp and heavy and hot—lands fully on my face now. My chest tightens.

"You wore this dress on purpose, didn’t you?" he asks, voice low. "You like knowing every man in here wants to fuck you?"

My cheeks go nuclear. "Non!I wore it foryou!"

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