Goddamn, I like this girl. I like my life when she’s in it. I hold onto her a little tighter. “Thought you might.”

Chapter Nineteen

Stella

* * *

As part of his “woo Stella” plan, John proposes we continue to introduce each other to something that the other hasn’t done before. “You know, take each other out of our comfort zones. Kind of like you did with me in the park.”

“Non-sexually speaking?” I ask over the breakfast John takes me to. Breakfast being Cereal Milk ice cream with cornflakes on top at Milk Bar. I have to give him points for creativity and cheek.

He bites his bottom lip before grinning. “You’re fixating, Button. I’m not talking about sex.”

I’m horny; sue me. For the past few weeks, John and I have spent our days together doing whatever catches our fancy. Our evenings are spent on the couch, kissing.

When I say kissing, I mean just that. No touches below the neck, just kissing. Soft, slow, wet kisses. Drugging kisses. Frantic kisses. Little pecks between laughing and talking. Suckling kisses. Deep ones that make my back arch and my body shiver.

We kiss until my lips are sore and my jaw aches. We kiss until my body is one big, hot throb of want and a single touch to my clit would set me off. But he never touches me there. And I don’t trail my hand down his firm chest to squeeze the cock I know is rock hard. Even when I know he’s as primed as I am. Even when he’s leaning into me, his big body trembling, his skin damp with sweat.

God, those moments get to me more than anything—seeing John a touch away from coming in his jeans. It’s hot as hell knowing how worked up I’ve gotten him. We’re torturing each other, taking it slow this way. But if feels so damn good. And there is something to his mad methods—we are learning each other. He’s getting under my skin, becoming necessary.

“What exactly haven’t you done before?” I ask him, a rough edge to my voice.

John drags a spoonful of ice cream over his tongue, a golden bit of cereal lingering on his lip before he licks it away. Only John could make eating ice cream look carnal without trying. “That’s a tough one. I’ve done a lot.” His green eyes glint. “But not with you.”

“Hmmm … My list of exciting experiences is fairly small.”

He winks at me, his expression cheerful. Today, he’s full-on rock star, vintage Patti Smith T-shirt faded to gray, black jeans that hug his tight thighs and hang low on his lean hips. “You ever ridden a motorcycle, Button?”

I pause, spoon halfway to my mouth. “Death on two wheels? Nope.”

John laughs. “It’s fun.”

“Do you know what happens if you crash?” I shudder dramatically. “Skin puppet.”

He leans in and nabs the ice cream on my spoon. “Mmm, creamy.”

“Eat your own!” I swat at him and scoop another bite.

“But I want your cream,” he says with a wink.

“It’s a good thing you’re hot, or I’d be making a gag face right now.”

“You love it, Stella Button. You know you do.” John rests his chin in his hand and watches me like I’m high entertainment. A thick leather band circles his wrist, drawing my attention to his forearms. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to stroke the silky skin on the bottom of a man’s forearm this much in my life. “I want to take you on a ride on my bike,” he says.

“Of course you have a motorcycle.”

“Of course I do,” he agrees happily. “Many of them. I’ll pick a good one for our ride.”

“I’m not riding on a motorcycle through the city. I’ll have my eyes closed the whole time or be terrorized by cabs.”

He blows a soft raspberry. “Ye of little faith. I’m a kick-ass driver, Button. But, no, we’ll go outside the city, have lunch, ride the highways like our asses are on fire.”

“Lovely picture. I don’t know why I would ever worry.” I’m pretending to protest, but excitement fizzes through my blood like soda.

John clearly knows I’m into his plan because he rubs his hands together, biting his bottom lip to contain his grin. “This is going to be fun. Let’s go on Wednesday. It’s supposed to be warm and sunny.”

I might be protesting, but his plan sounds wonderful—mainly because it involves being with him. I haven’t taken on any new clients and left a message on my phone, stating I’m on vacation. A foreign concept for me, but I’m getting used to it. Until I’d stepped away from work, I hadn’t realized how much I needed time to just be me and enjoy doing things I like.

“Okay, I’ll let you torment me on a bike.” I wave a spoonful of ice cream in his direction. “But I get the second half of the day.”

I have an idea. Something of me that I can share with him. I haven’t told him about my hobby, haven’t told anyone really. It will be exposing myself in a way that feels slightly uncomfortable. But I asked the same of him in the park; I can’t do less for him. And I’m fairly certain John hasn’t experienced anything like what I’m going to show him.

“What are we doing?” he asks as we push back from our seats.

Shaking my head, I follow him out the door and into weak sunlight. “It’s a surprise.”

“Does it involve nudity? Because I’m down with that.” He waggles his brows, the pink tip of his tongue peeking out between his teeth.

“You put the kibosh on nudity and nudity-related antics, remember?”

“I’m beginning to rethink that plan,” he says darkly.

Laughing, I nudge his side and am about to respond when a strange sort of clicking-fluttering sound erupts around us. At first I have no clue what it is, only that John has gone stiff beside me. Then it registers that there’s a group of guys aiming cameras our way, all of them shouting “Jax!”

“That your newest, Jax?”

“How you feeling?”

“She know about your women, Jax?”

Shocked, I stand there and stare back at them. All this time, no press has bothered us. I’d half expected it at the park. But nothing. Now they’re all over us. I hadn’t a clue how it would really be. The noise they create is enough to scramble my brain.

John takes out his phone and texts someone as they keep shouting our way.

A squeal pierces the air, and a new group surges in. Fans. Having never been in a true fan crowd, I don’t know what to expect. It’s actually sweet. His fans are respectful, some shy, some shaking and crying. He signs autographs and takes a bunch of selfies with them. I’m edged back and move toward the curb to watch him work.

My John is gone, replaced by Jax Blackwood of the easy smiles that don’t quite reach his eyes, and the chuckles that aren’t as deep but louder, forced. Not that I think any of his fans notice. No, he has that unique quality of making a person think all his attention is on them. That he can manage it in a crowd that increases from ten to twenty, then thirty, is impressive.

“You work for Jax?” a teenage girl beside me asks, her eyes alight with curiosity. She’s with a group of friends who have already gotten selfies but linger, taking more pictures of him.

“No, I’m his friend.”

A few girls glance at me with wide eyes. “How did you get to be friends with Jax?” I don’t miss the emphasis on “you,” as though this is a miracle of the highest caliber. Maybe it is. Watching him now, everything we’ve done before could easily be thought of as a dream, some strange figment of my imagination.