two o’clock on Sunday morning.
Jack and Cullen made sure all the dancers were safely ensconced in their new hotel, with tighter security, and then they both headed to their respective homes to finally catch up on their sleep. On his way to his house, Jack drove by Kennedy’s house. It was three in the morning, and he knew she had to work in a few hours. He let his foot off the gas, slowed the truck as he cruised past, and continued down the street.
He turned at the next intersection and drove around the block. A few minutes later, he found himself sitting in the idling truck, at the curb in front of the small, cozy brick ranch.
Her house felt casual, relaxed, with worn-but-comfortable furniture and a sunny kitchen. She’d told him she’d been a nurse for eight years, so he had to believe she made decent money, yet she appeared to live well beneath her means. He liked that about her, liked that she wasn’t pretentious.
It surprised him that he was even thinking about her living arrangements at all. He didn’t normally put forth the effort, didn’t really care about his liaisons’ lives. He was supposed to just want to get laid. Kennedy was fabulous between the sheets, a red-hot bed partner, and that was why he kept coming back for more.
It had nothing to do with cozy houses or liking to wake up in her bed, whether or not she was even there. It had nothing to do with enjoying sitting in her kitchen, chatting about his case while she made omelets …. Well, that part had been enjoyable until he’d gone and fucked it up by leaving when she suggested she might actually care about whether he lived or died in the line of duty.
What the hell was wrong with him? He was thinking about domestic shit, but when Kennedy acted like she might care more than he wanted her to, he shut her down. He really needed to get his head straightened out, but he had no freaking clue how to do it.
The neighbor’s porch light flickered to life. Jack cut the engine and climbed out of the truck, figuring he didn’t need them calling the cops about the suspicious vehicle parked outside Kennedy’s house. He slowly and deliberately walked toward the front door so the neighbor could see he wasn’t trying to hide anything. Instead of calling her cell phone, he rang the doorbell and waited for her to respond to the sound.
“Jack, I have to get up for work in couple of”—he cut her off, stepped inside, and closed and locked the door. He tangled one hand in her sleep-mussed hair and pulled her close for a hug, surprising them both.
“I just want to sleep with you,” he said into her hair.
That’s all they did. At least, he assumed so. He was pretty sure he’d have remembered if he’d had sex with her, even as tired as he was.
CHAPTER SIX
She wondered if he would be there when she got home from work.
When she’d woken up—for the second time—this morning, he’d been lying next to her, one leg flung over both of her own, his hand casually resting just below her breasts. He’d barely moved when the alarm blared, but when she’d slipped out of bed, his arm had snaked across the sheets, reaching for her, she’d fancied. As if he hadn’t wanted her to leave.
She hadn’t wanted to leave either. She’d wanted to stay there, to snuggle with him, to enjoy the intimacy of just sleeping together. And maybe, when he woke, they could do more than just sleep.
Despite how they’d parted ways the last time he’d spent the night, she still craved him, still wanted to have sex with him. But that was all. She didn’t need anything more than the occasional mind-blowing orgasm at Jack’s hand. Or mouth. Or …
She had a better perspective now. After crying tears of frustration, she had determined that she was getting too close, she cared too much; she had begun to look at this affair as more of a relationship.
She needed to stop reading into his actions. He wasn’t a relationship guy. This was how he treated all of his flings, so she
Jack and Cullen made sure all the dancers were safely ensconced in their new hotel, with tighter security, and then they both headed to their respective homes to finally catch up on their sleep. On his way to his house, Jack drove by Kennedy’s house. It was three in the morning, and he knew she had to work in a few hours. He let his foot off the gas, slowed the truck as he cruised past, and continued down the street.
He turned at the next intersection and drove around the block. A few minutes later, he found himself sitting in the idling truck, at the curb in front of the small, cozy brick ranch.
Her house felt casual, relaxed, with worn-but-comfortable furniture and a sunny kitchen. She’d told him she’d been a nurse for eight years, so he had to believe she made decent money, yet she appeared to live well beneath her means. He liked that about her, liked that she wasn’t pretentious.
It surprised him that he was even thinking about her living arrangements at all. He didn’t normally put forth the effort, didn’t really care about his liaisons’ lives. He was supposed to just want to get laid. Kennedy was fabulous between the sheets, a red-hot bed partner, and that was why he kept coming back for more.
It had nothing to do with cozy houses or liking to wake up in her bed, whether or not she was even there. It had nothing to do with enjoying sitting in her kitchen, chatting about his case while she made omelets …. Well, that part had been enjoyable until he’d gone and fucked it up by leaving when she suggested she might actually care about whether he lived or died in the line of duty.
What the hell was wrong with him? He was thinking about domestic shit, but when Kennedy acted like she might care more than he wanted her to, he shut her down. He really needed to get his head straightened out, but he had no freaking clue how to do it.
The neighbor’s porch light flickered to life. Jack cut the engine and climbed out of the truck, figuring he didn’t need them calling the cops about the suspicious vehicle parked outside Kennedy’s house. He slowly and deliberately walked toward the front door so the neighbor could see he wasn’t trying to hide anything. Instead of calling her cell phone, he rang the doorbell and waited for her to respond to the sound.
“Jack, I have to get up for work in couple of”—he cut her off, stepped inside, and closed and locked the door. He tangled one hand in her sleep-mussed hair and pulled her close for a hug, surprising them both.
“I just want to sleep with you,” he said into her hair.
That’s all they did. At least, he assumed so. He was pretty sure he’d have remembered if he’d had sex with her, even as tired as he was.
CHAPTER SIX
She wondered if he would be there when she got home from work.
When she’d woken up—for the second time—this morning, he’d been lying next to her, one leg flung over both of her own, his hand casually resting just below her breasts. He’d barely moved when the alarm blared, but when she’d slipped out of bed, his arm had snaked across the sheets, reaching for her, she’d fancied. As if he hadn’t wanted her to leave.
She hadn’t wanted to leave either. She’d wanted to stay there, to snuggle with him, to enjoy the intimacy of just sleeping together. And maybe, when he woke, they could do more than just sleep.
Despite how they’d parted ways the last time he’d spent the night, she still craved him, still wanted to have sex with him. But that was all. She didn’t need anything more than the occasional mind-blowing orgasm at Jack’s hand. Or mouth. Or …
She had a better perspective now. After crying tears of frustration, she had determined that she was getting too close, she cared too much; she had begun to look at this affair as more of a relationship.
She needed to stop reading into his actions. He wasn’t a relationship guy. This was how he treated all of his flings, so she
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