Page 59 of Worth Every Game
Jack’s brows pull low over his eyes, making the blue of his irises darken. “Okay.” He stretches the syllables, as though he’sstruggling to make sense of the connection, and might be a little afraid that whatever he says might set me off again. “What happened at this gig?”
A choking stone of sadness blocks my throat.I can’t do it. I’m not good enough.That’s what this gorgeous man believes, and fuck it, if tonight is anything to go by, he’s right, and I hate him for being right.
He said it from the get-go.Nico deserves the best, and you aren’t it.
The words explode from my mouth. “You bastard. You absolute prick.”
Jack flips his palms upward. “What the fuck? What’s happening? What’s going on? I am so fucking confused right now.” His voice is raw, and part of me longs to explain, longs to tell him how I’m feeling, but I’m cresting on a wave of irrational rage and there’s no way of getting back to solid ground. “Everything’s a joke to you, isn’t it? You just want to play your stupid game.” My voice is breaking, even as I wave one hand up and down his body to indicate the ridiculous apron he’s wearing.
His eyes are wild, scanning all over my face like the rapid movement will help him make sense of me. He’s doomed because not even I know what I’m doing.
“I don’t want to play anymore.” The words tear at my throat. “Not with someone like you.”
He stiffens. “What does that mean?”
“You’re an arrogant, judgmental arsehole.”
We glare at one another, neither of us moving. Jack draws breaths in through flared nostrils, and my breathing is all over the place. The tension filling the space between us has sky-rocketed, and the kitchen feels like it could go up in flames at any moment.
“You can be fucking rude, you know that?” he grits out. “I don’t know where this is coming from. How am I supposed to know what’s going on if you won’t tell me?”
“You want to know? Last week, when you barged into my room, you didn’t ask if I want to sing in the Marchmont. You didn’t ask if I was happy there. You never asked whatIwanted. You just came to my room and told me what to do. What to want. You never asked.”
His chest rises and falls a few times before he speaks, as though he needs to calm himself. “Tell me then. I’m right here. I’m listening. If you can tell me you’re happy, I’ll never mention it again.”
I’m so obviously not happy that answering his question seems pointless. “Fuck this. Fuck you. If you just want sex, go and find it somewhere else. I’m never going to sleep with you.” I spit the words out with such vehemence that Jack steps away from me, and I’m bracing for him to swear at me or yell and tell me to pack my bags and get the fuck out of his house.
For a few elongated moments, neither of us does anything. Then, to my absolute amazement, Jack unties his apron, unloops it from his neck and chucks it on the floor like the damn thing did something wrong. Like all of his rage is crumpled up into that ball of fabric lying on the tiles.
And then he’s there, entirely naked in the middle of his kitchen, staring at me. I’ve seen him topless plenty of times, but like this, without a scrap to cover him, he’s breathtaking. The lines of his body are illuminated by the light from the two candles still flickering on the table, casting his muscles in high relief. He’s like a model in a photoshoot, where nudity is art. The broad shoulders, the defined pecs, the abs… all of it is perfect. But it’s the muscles tapering down in that perfect V to his groin that draws my attention, and I follow them right to hisdick which, although not erect, is big. Really fucking big, even hanging there.
Jack Lansen’s dick.
My heart swings around unanchored in my chest. I can’t breathe. Not one tiny gasp of air. I’ve never seen a body like his in real life. I’m almost dizzy before I manage my next inhalation.
“Why… why…shit. You’re naked. Why?” The voice doesn’t sound like mine. I think my soul has left my body.I can’t believe this is happening.
“Had to make you stop talking somehow. You weren’t making any sense.” His voice is calm, as though we haven’t just been fighting and he hasn’t exposed himself in the kitchen. As though this is an average night, and we’re having a totally normal conversation.
“You’re naked,” I repeat, and my voice is almost a squeak.
“Well observed.”
“Fuck.” The word hisses out between my lips, a sound that settles somewhere between a curse and a sigh, and my jaw hangs loose as awe and anger spiral through me like a tornado. “You can’t get naked and think it’s going to fix everything. You’re not taking this seriously. You’re not takingmeseriously.”
He fixes his attention on me, and the energy in the room changes, as though he flicked an invisible switch, turning all the anger in the air sexual. “Believe me, I take you very seriously.”
His voice is low and seductive and it makes heat simmer in my core, but my stomach swirls with anxiety. I’m simultaneously so attracted to him, and so annoyed, and so fucking nervous about the fact he’s naked and where this might go and what it means, that I might throw up.
“Put your clothes on. I just told you I wouldn’t sleep with you.” I’m impressed with how calm I sound, all things considered.
Jack rubs his hand over his jaw. He’s so casual in his nakedness, like he has absolutely no body shame. Like it hasnever occurred to him that his body might not be universally appealing.
To be fair, he might be right.
“Final answer?” he asks.
I want to tell him yes, but the word stalls on the tip of my tongue. Teetering right on the edge, not daring to take the plunge.