Page 11 of Reckless Kiss

I worked my jaw while Jeffry laughed. “Only that he doesn’t work at the university. Leo’s an agent. You’ve got what? At least four clients in this restaurant?”

“I’m impressed Jeffry. Yes.”

“Jeffry,” she repeated softly, like she was trying out a brand new word on her tongue.

“Yeah, Leo’s the only one who uses my full name.”

“And it will stay that way.” I preferred given names. Nicknames made me nauseous.

“Are you English?” she asked. “Your vocabulary choices and cadence aren’t specifically American but they aren’t standard for British English either.”

Was it appropriate how much I enjoyed her attention? Probably not. But I relished it anyway. Had she been dying to ask this question the night we were together? Had she been thinking about me ever since. I liked thinking it was so.

“My mother is English.”

“And your father?” Her head cocked to the side and her dark hair fell down her shoulder.

“My father is an asshole.”

She nodded slowly. “It’s not uncommon to have unusual linguistic patterns when you’re raised exclusively by a parent with an accent in a place contrary to that of their origin. Yours is fascinating though.”

Jeffry laughed. “I should probably mention Esme is an anthropologist in the research group on the floor above ours.”

An anthropologist. For some reason that bit of information was like someone handing me a gold bar and telling me to keep it. Esme, more than most, kept so much of herself hidden from me. She wanted one thing from our night together and I gave it without protest, but I was starting to wonder if part of the reason she fascinated me was how little she shared in our time together.

Most of my dates enjoyed the sharing process—even the ones who just wanted a good time. But not Esme. Our dinner was one of flirtation and banter, but no real substance.

Why?

This felt important.

“And you Grant? Other than eating pork tacos on Tuesdays, what do you do?” And just like that her attention was on another man again.

I really didn’t like that.

I hated it actually.

Aggressively so. And that confused the hell out of me. I didn’t even listen to Grant blather on about nucleotides. Instead I scanned my body and came up with a very disturbing answer.

I tried to find another.

Therehadto be another. I was thirty-two fucking years old and I knew what anger, sadness, frustration, and fear all felt like. I was quite aware of the intensity of lust, the drunken feeling I got from anticipation, and the dizzying affects of satisfaction. But this feeling was something new and while I had never felt it before, the words I would use to describe it only fit one damned, horrible emotion.

I was jealous.

Of everyone. Not specifically Grant or even poor Jeffry. I was jealous of anyone who had Esme’s attention. I wanted it. All of it. And not having it was a cold, empty shell of how it felt to bask in the glow of her smile.

Or, even better, the draw of her eyes.

My damned cock sprang to life again just thinking about it. I really needed to get a handle on that thing. It had never misbehaved so much. And that was another, equally disturbing thought. I had a heat-seeking missile between my legs—just like when I was a teenager. I was very proud of the fact that I mastered control of it early on. I wanted sex and I found an excellent formula of success for fulfilling my needs. My dick behaved.

My dick was no longer behaving.

It wanted Esme and it refused to listen to my brain.

* * *

The night beganto wind down.

---