Jaxon Hawthorne exited the low-swung Mercedes and rose to his full six-feet-four inches. Rounding to the passenger side, he intended to assist Mila but her icy glare screamed she’d rather kiss a rattlesnake than take his extended hand.
Frowning, he looked down at her. “What? You don’t want to touch me now?” “Move Jax.” The succinct command was the most she’d spoken in the last hour. Bypassing him, she grabbed the door handle and stood to those lust-evoking high heels on her own before prancing down the long walkway toward the house.
Their house.
The one construction crews were working double time to complete before their wedding in five weeks. The guest cottage was already finished so he and Mila had bunked there the last few weekends to oversee construction progress of the main residence. The other stays had included plenty of hot, sin-filled romps with his thoroughbred of a fiancée, but her pinched lips and the sinking feeling in his gut hinted this time may be different.
Jax watched the play of Mila’s tight backside as she climbed the steps to the house. With each rise of her leg—even under her cashmere topcoat—the damnable split in her dress revealed a little more honey-brown skin.
When she made the last little push to reach the threshold, the wind caught the hem of the gauzy, reddish-orange material, making it wave like a flag. Was that…?
He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes to get a better look. Yep, that was the actual curve of her ass. If he could see that much skin there was no way in hell she had on panties. Thanks to his father’s antics earlier tonight, Jax wouldn’t be invited to investigate the situation for himself. Usually going sans underwear was her way of giving him a treat but right now it only served to torture his imagination. Just that quick he was hard enough to drill through concrete.
“Aw, hell.”
Every time. Every damn time she sashayed that fine ass in front of him, his shaft jumped up and turned summersaults. Even after seven months together just the sight of her skyscraper, cinnabrown legs made breathing more difficult, and he could swear a perpetual trail of drool rolled down his chin. No amount of discipline in the world could stop him from imagining them knee-deep in sheets, her flat on her back, him knocking the top off the best tunnel to ever grip his—.
Bam!
He winced when the door almost shook off its hinges after Mila’s forceful push.
He should be in heavy pursuit of his gorgeous fiancée knowing he could persuade her to end their evening in a more… pleasurable manner. Tonight however, he lagged behind, lamenting the possible loss of her affection for the night. This morning’s hot, quick session seemed days ago instead of hours. A pained groan rose from his chest and he shifted his rigid member from beneath his zipper to rest along his thigh. Then, head bent, and with both regret and consolation, he spoke to the insistent sole representative of his manhood.
“You might as well calm down; having the door slammed in my face and leaving my ass in the freezing cold probably means you will not be getting lucky tonight.”
