The Morning After

Bandaging the wound just above Jameson’s collarbone, I felt my pulse jump in my own neck—an unrelenting, uncompromising ticking up of my heart rate. Once I was done, I put my palms flat against Jameson’s bare chest once more.

“Heiress.” This was Jameson asking me to keep going, Jameson asking me for everything.

He might as well have asked the sun to burn. No matter the secrets he was keeping, no matter what had happened to him in the past twelve hours, there was an inevitability to him and me.

My hip bones brushed against his body, as I pushed him slowly back against the bathroom wall.

“Tell me you’re okay,” I ordered.

“I am,” Jameson said with unmatched intensity, “better than okay.”

I brought my lips to his. Tahiti. Tahiti. Tahiti. It took everything in me not to say it. Instead, I dragged my hands down his chest. Down. Down. Down. My heart sped up. Time slowed down.

Jameson pushed off the wall. The next thing I knew, his lips were devouring mine.

“If you’re going to say it…” Jameson pulled roughly back, and I could feel the intensity with which he didn’t want me to call Tahiti. “Say it now, Heiress.”

He didn’t want me to—but I could.