Page 61 of Unbound Boxset

“It’s midnight. No one’s out here and soon we’ll be setting sail. I thought about you all day. Thought about licking sweet sugar from your breasts while you cried out for me to stop. Do you remember how long I pleasured your breasts? How sensitive to each bite and lick you became?”

Oh, God, yes. She remembered it all. Already on command, her body slammed into full alert, awaiting his every instruction.

“I want to eat while I gaze at you half naked. I want to know I can reach out and touch you at any time, and that soon I’ll have you.”

It took a moment for her fingers to stop trembling. Then she placed her glass down, and took off her tiny white T-shirt, and exposed a lacy crème bra.

“Now the bra.”

Julianna unhooked the back clasp and revealed herself.

“Good girl,” he murmured. He took a sip of wine and devoured her with his gaze. “You hide your body behind such boring clothes. Your skin tastes like vanilla bean ice cream. Your nipples are rosy and flushed, and you fit perfectly in the palms of my hands. Now I want you to remove your underwear.”

She fought a blush, amazed she had any shred of modesty left after the week they shared. “How do you know I’m wearing underwear?”

“Because you like when I make you take them off.”

She sucked in her breath. Then hiked up her skirt to wiggle out of the plain white panties she’d desperately wanted to upgrade.

“Well done. Now, about the retaining wall.”

Julianna assumed he was joking. Every nerve ending felt raw and exposed, and her pussy throbbed to have him thrust deep inside her. Unfortunately, he wasn’t joking, and launched into a detailed description of the project, the cost, and the time period. She tried desperately to listen, but her body screamed louder than her mind and became the victor. Finally, she agreed to the project and dimly noted it would extend the time he worked around her house by a few more days. Not a good idea, but something she couldn’t control. Hell, she was barely able to hold an intelligent conversation with the breeze caressing her bare breasts, hardening her nipples, and knowing she was wet, aching and ready for him.

“Tell me about the classes you teach,” he said, leaning back in his chair and obviously enjoying the view.

She refused to surrender first and forced her thoughts on the conversation. “Classical literature was a staple in my household. I grew up with Dickens and Austen to keep me company. But poetry was my passion.”

“You mentioned that before. Your father didn’t approve?”

“He felt it was too unruly; too raw. I was encouraged to study literature with an analytical mind. He believed poets held no restraint.” She gave a shrug. “It was the only time I rebelled. I decided to teach poetry, which he termed a waste.”

“It was important to you,” he murmured, tipping his head as he focused on her face. “Worth fighting for.”

“Yes.” A brief rush of pride cut through her. Her father assumed she’d obey and switch her major, but she sensed the last part of her true self would disappear forever if she gave in. “I had to.”

Satisfaction curled his lip. “I’m glad you protected that part of yourself. Did you ever want to write?”

She smiled. “I tried for a while but realized I have no talent. I prefer reading and allowing someone else’s words to fuel my imagination.”

His gaze probed. “I can understand that. You try desperately to live in your head but deep inside you have too much passion. Reading would feed that hunger, but writing in your own words may restrain it.”

Surprise shot through her. Dead-on hit. She wondered how he knew her so well with so little time spent in her company. “Yes,” she answered softly. “Each time I tried to write a poem, I’d be strangled with doubt and feel silly. I couldn’t seem to let the pen take over.”

“It’s like sex.” She raised an eyebrow and he elaborated. “You need to give in to the desires of the body for orgasm. You need to give in to the desires of the imagination in order to write.”

Fascinated, she cocked her head. “You sound well-read, also.”

“My mother raised me on poetry.”

“Dr. Seuss?”

He laughed. “More like Dickinson and Moore. She insisted on giving me culture, as she called it. Also told me it would help with the ladies.”

“Did it?”

“You tell me.”

Julianna shook her head in amusement at his outright arrogance and the memory of that night by the bar. “You’re impossible. But your mother was right. When I heard you quoting Whitman, well, I don’t need to lie. You had me.” He seemed satisfied by her admission, but she was curious about all the hidden facets he never spoke about. “You sound like you come from a close family, yet you don’t want to settle down with the business. What type of business is it, Jack?”