Page 81 of Dead Pretty

I hear a hot gasp and realize it came from me.

Jack sucks on my tongue, and I am putty in his hands.

He circles his hips against mine, and I moan into his mouth. My fingers slide into his hair, gripping the strands.

I’m stuck between a solid door and a rock-hard body, and there is nowhere else I want to be right now than here.

My hands roam, needing skin. I grapple with his sweater, tugging it up.

Jack gets the message, letting me go so he can pull it over his head in that sexy way that he does.

I admire him in the muted light. The hard lines of his chest. His hard-earned abs. The strip of dark hair that follows the sculpted V down into his jeans.

I reach for his jeans, wanting them off. I tug open the button. Dragging the zipper down, I slide my hand inside, desperate to touch him.

The part of him that I need inside me more than I need my next breath.

My fingers slide into the waistband of his underwear, seeking.

When my fingertips make contact with the head of his cock, Jack hisses a breath in between his teeth.

My fingers graze down the soft skin of his rock-hard shaft before curling around his cock and giving it a squeeze.

“Fuck,” Jack curses.

His hand grabs the back of my head, bringing me back to his mouth, and he kisses the hell out of me.

I start jacking him off, loving the low groans he makes into my mouth.

The kiss moves from hot to frantic in seconds.

His hands find my breasts, cupping them over my tank and bra beneath it.

My nipples pebble against the drag of the fabric of my bra as he runs his thumb over one of them.

The back of my head hits the wall. A sigh of pleasure escaping me.

“You like that?” His low voice makes me hot in all the right places.

“Yes,” I whisper.

The next thing I know, his hands take hold of the hem of my tank top, trying to lift it up, and that is when everything goes to hell in a handbasket.

“No!” I yell, shoving his hands away from me.

Jack practically jumps back from me, a look of surprise on his handsome face.

And I can’t blame him. We went from sizzling hot to freezing cold in less than a second.

“I’m sorry,” he starts, his hands going up in the air. “I—”

“It’s not your fault,” I cut him off. Shame is coating me like thick black oil. “You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s me … I can’t …” How the hell do I say this? How do I tell him that I can’t get naked with him from the waist up and not explain the reason?

“You can’t what, Audrey?” His voice is soft, calm, measured. Like the way you would speak to a frightened animal.

It makes me feel as pathetic as I know I am.

I don’t know what to say. I stare down at the floor, trying to find the right words.