Page 79 of Tricked By Jack

I shake my head. “Later.” For some reason, I don’t want to wash him off me yet. As I move past him, I feel his gaze like a physical touch on my back.

As I enter the bedroom, I bypass the clean shirts and reach instead for one crumpled on top of the hamper. It’s black, soft from countless washes, and when I bring it to my face, it smells intensely of him—not cologne, but skin and salt and man.

I pull it over my head without hesitation, the fabric falling to mid-thigh. It feels illicit somehow, stealing his scent this way, wrapping myself in it like armor. Or surrender.

When Jack enters the bedroom, his tie is loosened, but he’s still fully dressed in his tuxedo. He reaches for his collar, clearly intending to change, but I stop him.

“Don’t,” I say, the word coming out huskier than I intended.

He pauses, hands frozen at his throat, eyes narrowing slightly. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t change.” I swallow, feeling heat crawl up my neck. “Keep the tux on. You look…” I trail off, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of hearing me say it.

A slow smirk spreads across his face, knowing and predatory. “I look what, wife?”

“Too good to take it off yet,” I admit finally, the confession making me feel naked despite the t-shirt covering me.

Jack Knight in a suit is a sight to behold. And thanks to wasting hours ignoring him, I haven’t had my fill of watching him yet. While the jeans and leather jacket are hot as hell, it’s different to the tux.

It’s two sides of the same coin—an extremely attractive coin. They’re the same, and yet they don’t compare at all.

His smirk deepens as he drops his hands from his collar. “Is that so?” He crosses to me, fingers catching my chin, tilting my face up to his. “And is that my shirt you’re wearing?”

“Yes,” I don’t deny it. “It smells like you.”

Something flickers in his eyes, possessive and pleased. “Come on,” he says, releasing my chin. “Let’s eat before it gets cold.”

He turns toward the living room, and I follow, feeling strangely lighter than I have in days. As if admitting I want him in his tux has broken some dam inside me, allowing other wants to flow freely.

While Jack kneels to build a fire in the stone hearth, I gather our food and drinks from the kitchen. No wine tonight, though my nerves could use the numbing. If Jack isn’t drinking, neither will I. It feels like solidarity, though I’m not sure with what.

The fire pops and hisses as I settle on the couch, stretching my bare legs across Jack’s lap. The soft drink is cold against my palm, condensation dripping onto my thigh as I take a sip. Jack’s fingers rest lightly on my ankle, his thumb tracing absent circles against my skin.

He looks surreal in his tuxedo, the crisp black fabric a stark contrast to the greasy paper bags and cardboard containers littering the coffee table. A man of his status doesn’t eat fast food in formal wear, yet here he is, stealing one of my fries.

I swat at his hand and toss another fry at him in mock retaliation. “Hey!” he exclaims.

“They’re really good fries,” I smirk. “I’m not sure I want to share.”

We each bite into our burgers, and finish them without a word. Even though the silence between us is comfortable, I’m itching to find out more about him. So, I decide to shatter it with a question.

“What’s your favorite color?”

Jack glances up, brow furrowing slightly. “Is this therapy, Dr. Death?”

“No.” I shake my head, taking a bite of my burger. “Just conversation. Normal people have those, you know.”

His lips quirk. “And we’re normal people now?”

“For tonight,” I say softly, not entirely surewhy I’m offering this truce. “Just answer the question.”

He considers, fingers absently circling my ankle. “Black,” he says finally. “Not because it’s empty. Because it hides everything you don’t want the world to see.”

The answer knots low in my stomach. “Makes sense.”

“Your turn.”

I hesitate, then say, “If I had to pick, orange is my favorite. But I love colors in general, which I think my hair proves.” Laughing softly, I playfully lift a strand. “I usually dye it from the shoulders down each season.”