Page 50 of Worth the Wait

Her laugh is warm against my skin as she curls closer. "Tell me."

"I imagined bending you over your perfectly organized desk," I admit, voice dropping lower. "Hiking up that precise pencil skirt and discovering if you were as controlled underneath as you appeared on the surface."

"And now you know," she murmurs, her hand tracing lazy patterns on my chest.

"Now I know you're even more surprising than I remembered." I kiss her temple, breathing in the scent of her—vanilla and sex and something uniquely Tarryn. "The perfect contradiction."

She hums contentedly, eyes growing heavy with satisfied exhaustion. "We should probably talk about this," she says, though the words lack conviction.

"Tomorrow," I suggest, pulling her closer. "Tonight, just stay with me."

For a moment, I think she'll argue—the careful lawyer reasserting boundaries—but instead, she nestles against me, her body fitting perfectly against mine.

"Okay," she whispers, the simple acceptance more meaningful than she probably realizes.

As she drifts toward sleep, I watch the subtle changes in her expression, the professional mask completely dissolved, leaving only the woman. Not just the passionate creature who claimed me so thoroughly, but something more complex—vulnerable and strong, controlled and wild.

Each layer of Tarryn Wells I rediscover makes me hunger for more, a craving deeper than mere physical desire. This isn't just about sex, though God knows that's transcendent enough. It's about seeing all of her—the brilliant attorney and the woman with secret fire—and wanting every aspect of her.

Tomorrow will bring complications… professional boundaries to renegotiate, Christine's watchful eyes to evade, decisions about what this means beyond a hotel room encounter. But tonight, with Tarryn's breath warm against my chest and her body melted trustingly into mine, those concerns seem distant, manageable.

Whatever comes next, this moment, this perfect, honest connection, makes every risk worthwhile.

Chapter 13

Tarryn

Isit perfectly still at the breakfast table, my hands wrapped around my coffee mug to hide their trembling. Christine's gaze hasn't left me since I walked into the hotel restaurant, her eyes cataloging every movement, every facial expression, every breath that might betray what happened between Jackson and me last night.

"Sleep well?" she asks, voice dripping with false concern. "These hotel beds can be so… uncomfortable."

I take a careful sip of coffee, using the moment to compose myself. "Fine, thank you. The Westfield presentation materials kept me busy until quite late."

Jackson slides into the seat across from me, his presence instantly shifting the air in the room. I don't look up—can't look up—because I know what I'll see: his lips still slightly swollen from my kisses, perhaps a faint mark on his neck that my teeth left in a moment of abandoned control. Worse, I'll see his eyes, and they'll carry the memory of how I came apart beneath him, around him, the sheets tangled at our feet and my cries muffled against his shoulder.

"Good morning," he says, voice perfectly calibrated, not giving anything away.

"Hayes," Christine purrs, "we were just discussing how restorative a good night's sleep can be before client meetings. Did you find your accommodations adequate?"

The double entendre hangs in the air like perfume, too subtle to call out but impossible to miss. I focus intently on buttering my toast, though my appetite has completely disappeared.

"More than adequate," Jackson replies smoothly. "I was able to complete my review of the subsidiary documentation before turning in."

Miguel joins us then, his rapid-fire questions about the day's agenda providing blessed relief from Christine's thinly veiled interrogation. Throughout breakfast, I maintain perfect composure, contributing appropriately to discussions about presentation strategy and client expectations. Not once do I allow my gaze to linger on Jackson for more than a professional second.

But I feel him. Every shift in his posture, every breath, every subtle movement registers on my skin like a physical touch. My body remembers his in vivid, visceral detail—the weight of him pressing me into the mattress, the taste of his skin beneath my tongue, the way his hands knew exactly where to touch, to stroke, to claim.

"Your input on the liability restructuring was particularly insightful, Tarryn," Miguel says, jolting me back to the present. "The client specifically mentioned your attention to detail as a key differentiator."

"Thank you," I manage, cheeks warming under the praise. "Jackson's strategic approach created the perfect framework for those details."

Christine's eyes narrow fractionally at the exchange. "Indeed. Your collaboration has been quite productive." She leans forward, perfectly manicured nails tapping against her coffee cup. "Though I've noticed certain inconsistencies in yourapproach to team dynamics that might benefit from more senior oversight."

The threat is so thinly veiled it's practically transparent.

"I see no inconsistencies," Miguel replies, mercifully oblivious to the subtext. "In fact, their complementary styles have produced our strongest client responses in months."

I don't dare look at Jackson, but I feel his gaze on me, steady and reassuring. Instead, I take another sip of coffee, using the mug to hide whatever emotions might be flickering across my face.

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