Page 55 of Jane Deyre
I’m expecting a harsh slap across my face. I deserve it. And brace myself for the sting. Instead, she lets out a shuddering breath. Then, licks her lips—a small gesture that sends my hormones into a tailspin. My cock strains against my fly.
Her breathing remains shallow, her glistening lips stay parted. She looks shell-shocked. Three little words spill out in a whisper:
“I let you.”
I’m a writer and I have no words. Nor does she. Our glazed-over eyes stay locked in a mental embrace. Finally, she breaks the silence.
“I should get going.” She buttons up her sweater.
My gaze drops to the coffee table. “Don’t forget your portrait.” I so badly want to keep it. Hang it up in my office. Create my own vision board.
“Yeah, right.” She reaches for it.
“Want me to walk you to the guesthouse?” I immediately regret my words. It would be too tempting to walk her backward inside it and bang her against a wall or carry her to her bedroom.
“No, it’s okay. I’m a big girl. Goodnight, Mr. Rochester.”
And with that she flees, leaving me bereft.
Bewildered.
And fucked.
I throw my head back and blow out a breath of frustration.
New York can’t come soon enough.
I’m leaving first thing in the morning.
CHAPTER 27
Jane
The lights of the guesthouse are back on. I’m too dazed and confused—too inebriated—to remember if I left them on. I’m pretty sure they were turned off before the power went off last night, but I can’t be sure. A torrent of emotions clouds my thinking.
Reader, he kissed me!
I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. My lips beautifully bruised from his sucking and gnawing. My eyes glazed in a drunken stupor.
I let him. Sinking right into him like one of those mindless heroines in a romance novel. I even deepened the kiss by cupping his jaw with my hands. As if gripping his devastating face would keep his warm, velvety lips glued to mine forever.
Unless you count John Reed trying to stick his tongue down my throat, I’ve never been kissed by a man before. Never known the power of a kiss. How it can make you see stars behind your eyes. Heat every cell in your body. Make your knees turn to jelly. Turn your bones to liquid. Melt your heart like wax. Turn your brains into mush.
I loved every second.Every minute?I can’t be sure because I was so lost in him I lost track of time. And everything around me. It felt like an eternity. He filled my every sense, my every cell, but now my heart is heavy and full of regret. I shouldn’t have let him kiss me. It was a mistake. My mistake. He’s my boss! Oh, God! How will I ever be able to face him?
Still feverish, I splash some cold water on my face. Brush my teeth, though the taste of him lingers on my lips. The scent of him on my dress.
The cold water against my skin sobers me. It was more than the kiss. He opened up to me tonight about his past. His vulnerabilities. He trusted me with secrets. I want to know more about his mother’s relationship with Edwina. And about his past.
I won’t. Because I’m going to resign. I crossed the line of professional conduct. I’m going to do the right thing. Before things go too far. By the time he returns from his mysterious trip, I’ll be trekking down Hollywood Boulevard in a new character costume. Eyeore, the glum donkey from Winnie the Pooh, would be fitting.
Tomorrow I’ll tell Mr. Rochester. Better yet I’ll write him a resignation letter now. Get it over with. Keep it professional. Straightforward, no emotions. Not having his email, or cell phone number, or a printer for that matter, I’ll have to handwrite it. Then, I remember the typewriter in the living room. I’ve never used one before, especially an old-fashioned manual, but it can’t be that hard. I pad over to it and, to my surprise, find a sheet of paper already inside the carriage. I tear it out. On it a largeXis scrawled in red marker. A chill runs through me. Who put it there and what does it mean? The scarlet letter can’t signify anything good. It’s as if someone is canceling me or sending me a warning. Or telling me I’ve done something wrong.I have!I crumple the ominous letter in my fist and toss it into the wastepaper basket next to the desk. Then search for a clean sheet of a paper, which I find readily in the top drawer. I insert it into the carriage and begin to type.
Click... click... click... click.
Each letter, each word is an effort. Emotionally and physically challenging, especially with my still sore, bandaged finger. In contrast to my fast-and-easy laptop keyboard, I have to press down on the round metal keys very hard and wait for them to return. Moreover, three of the keys—the “a,” the “e,” and the “r”—are jammed. They won’t work no matter how much I pound them.
I read over what I’ve written so far.