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Tempted by His Wicked Kiss
Zoey Williams
New York City, December 31–Countdown to Eternity . . .Jackson Holloway is running out of time. To pay for his life of crime, he must find a pure soul to take his place in the Underworld before the clock strikes midnight. Medium Charlotte Simms seems like the perfect target—all he has to do is kiss her. But one kiss leads to a sensual encounter unlike anything Jack ever experienced in life. And now he must choose between love—and eternal damnation…
New York City, December 31—Countdown to Eternity...
Jackson Holloway is running out of time. To pay for his life of crime, he must find a pure soul to take his place in the Underworld before the clock strikes midnight. Medium Charlotte Simms seems like the perfect target—all he has to do is kiss her. But one kiss leads to a sensual encounter unlike anything Jack ever experienced in life. And now he must choose between love—and eternal damnation....
Tempted by His Wicked Kiss
Zoey Williams
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Dear Reader,
When I told my AP English teacher from high school (who is still my dear friend to this day) that I was writing paranormal erotica, she said, “Paranormal erotica? What is that—sexy ghosts?” I laughed long and hard at that, but when I stopped, I sat back and thought, Well, what about a sexy ghost? Could I make ghosts sexy? And so began my journey of thinking up the plot of Tempted by His Wicked Kiss.
Inspiration struck next when I had a girls’ night with my mom, my best friend Mary and her mom, Kathy. We were eating, drinking and laughing as usual when Kathy took out an old tea-leaf-reading book from the 1920s and we all read our cups of peppermint tea. That’s when I knew my next heroine would be a fortune-teller and seduce the hero over a tea-leaf-reading session.
Tempted by His Wicked Kiss was so much fun to write, even more so than my debut novella, The Demon’s Forbidden Passion. I can only hope that you have just as much fun reading it. Feel free to tell me what you think at www.facebook.com/AuthorZoeyWilliams (http://www.facebook.com/AuthorZoeyWilliams) or on Twitter, @ZoeyWilliamsAu (https://twitter.com/ZoeyWilliamsAu). I would love to hear from you!
All best,
Zoey
Dedication
This novella is dedicated to “Hilda and the Pool Ladies,” Mary, Kathy, Amy, Zoey P., Paula and Marissa, for always being my biggest cheerleaders and dearest friends.
Contents
Chapter One (#u0641629c-d1c4-5a98-bff5-91c72e6de123)
Chapter Two (#u315f30e5-94ba-5bb3-b49e-b94fc3161d76)
Chapter Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
For almost all of Jackson Holloway’s adult life, his name appeared everywhere. The headlines of newspapers, police blotters, wanted posters that had been hung so long on policemen’s bulletin boards the paper had yellowed and curled. But now, for the first time—standing in the middle of Times Square six days after Christmas—Jack was anonymous. Lights sparkled from every angle—from the flashing billboards above the street to the lit advertisements on top of the cabs that flooded the asphalt. All of them hocked overpriced restaurants, kitschy souvenirs, discounted Broadway tickets, cheap T-shirts. Men in sandwich boards and funny costumes attempted to thrust colorful flyers into the fists of tourists. Each had a different message typed out in the same loud font. Designer suits at bargain prices. $10 off your meal at such-and-such restaurant. Do you like free comedy?
A cacophony of horns honking, the swish of revolving doors, the tinny music being pumped out of the underside of Broadway theaters’ awnings: it was almost maddening. And there were people: throngs and throngs of people. Without tourists, Times Square was still an assault on the senses. With them, it was like the inside of a beehive—constant movement, constant buzzing, swarming.
Jack’s face blended into the crowd, completely unnoticeable among the sea of tourists. People bundled in hats, gloves, and scarves all across the color spectrum breezed by as if they could see right through him. He’d always enjoyed coming here for that very reason. Because when Jack was invisible, darting through the crowds, he never got caught.
Back when he and Cal were kids, they’d cut class (not like anyone cared when they left—teachers sighed in relief when the boxes next to their names remained empty as they ticked off attendance), take the C train from Brooklyn and spend the afternoon in midtown. As they traveled over the bridge, suddenly everything would turn from the gray, institutional look of the projects to the sparkling lights of Times Square. Jack liked the escape—to spend a few hours outside of their dangerous neighborhood. Cal liked the escape, too—because the pockets in Times Square were the easiest to pick.
The two would slither through the crowd, their hands diving into whatever back pockets or purses that were attached to a distracted traveler. They made a game of it—how much could they pick in an hour? Sometimes a wallet or two would contain bills in a foreign currency Jack wouldn’t recognize and scores were argued over. But then a quick trip to the exchange on 48th Street would reveal the true victor, almost always Cal. Because that was where a crumpled mound of gibberish notes was turned into cold, hard cash. And he and Cal would be able to eat that night.
But that was more than a decade ago, back when things were simpler. When their worst offenses were pickpocketing a few bucks and stealing a grime-covered banana off a street-adjacent fruit stand. Back then, it was mere child’s play. As Jack and Cal got older, petty crime slowly escalated to robbing ATMs, holding up convenience stores, muggings. Jack knew Cal also dabbled in hired hits from time to time—Cal getting paid to beat someone to a pulp.
It had all started because Cal and Jack’s drug-addled mothers cared about filling their syringes more than putting food on the table. With no one to look after them, it was all about survival. Then, in a moment so subtle Jack couldn’t put his finger on it, everything changed. It wasn’t about survival anymore. They were twenty-eight now. They should’ve grown past it, straightened up and done something with their lives. But for Cal, it had turned into fun. A career.
Jack shivered at the thought. A light flurry of snow had just begun to fall. It was cold out, but Jack couldn’t feel it. He huffed through the crowds, but unlike the people around him, his breath didn’t form an icy puff in the air. Cal had walked so fast in front of him he had disappeared from Jack’s sight. Again. As the New Year loomed closer, Jack found this happening more and more. While he understood why Cal had run off, his disappearances still sent a spike of anger through Jack. They were supposed to be in this together. They were practically brothers, in life and in...
“Hey!” Jack shouted as he caught a glimpse of Cal’s unmistakable combination of faded green army jacket and fiery red hair. “Wait up, man!”
If Cal heard him, he didn’t show any indication. Jack sped up his pace, practically jogging until he could walk in step with Calvin. Tonight he and Cal were on the prowl, just as they had been for the last year. Cal—his friend, his partner in crime—had once been so cool and collected. He’d walk into a room like he owned the place. And he’d had lots of practice; that’s what a life of crime had done to him.
Jack looked at his only friend in the world. Cal had taught him everything he knew. How to slip a hand into an unsuspecting bastard’s pocket and remove his wallet and phone. How to throw a right hook that did the most damage. Every scam, swindle, and crime in the book. It was every man for himself, except when it came to Jack and Cal. Or at least that’s what Jack had thought. With Cal’s disappearing acts growing more frequent, he was beginning to wonder.
His friend had changed. Cal’s swagger had been replaced with a fast, nervous step. His usual smirk had become a flat line. His heavily lidded eyes, usually giving an I-don’t-give-a-fuck look to anyone—especially law enforcement—were now wide, his pupils shrinking into pinpoints, as if he were always looking over his shoulder.
But Jack knew, as much as he would never admit it, that Calvin had started these weird habits because he was scared. He was more than scared; he was terrified. Because if they didn’t find what they were looking for within the next eight hours, they were fucked. Eternally fucked.
“Hey, slow down,” Jack called after his friend. “You keep running around like this and you’re going to rush right past what we’re looking for.”
Cal spun on his heel and glared. “Oh yeah, smart ass? I don’t see you finding anything. We have less than a day. I’ll do this however I want. Our slow pace sure hasn’t helped this last year.”
He had a point.
They had been given a year to find a target and nothing had turned up. As Jack jogged to keep up with Cal dashing up Broadway, he detected some movement above him. He squinted. Like a glittering jewel he had wrenched off a lady’s hand more times than he could count was the silvery New Year’s Eve ball glinting in the late afternoon sun, reflecting the pink of the sunset. In a little less than eight hours, that ball would drop, signifying the start of a new year. Within that stretch of time, if Cal and Jack didn’t find what they were looking for, they were worse than dead.
And in that moment, when Jack allowed himself to briefly think of the fate that awaited them, he saw it. A flash of violet in his peripheral vision.
Jack stopped dead in his tracks.
No longer hearing the footfalls of his friend beside him, Cal slowed down before turning around in a huff. “What the fuck, man? I told you that you need to keep up with me. I’m tired of this—”
From where he stood, Cal trailed off as he tried to get a glimpse of where Jack was looking. Frozen in place, his eyes desperately searched the crowd. Cal ran over, stopping so short he almost ran into his friend. When Jack still didn’t say anything, Cal nudged him with his elbow.
“Oh shit, you see one, don’t you?” he asked. “Which way did it go?”
All of a sudden, Jack felt like he was underwater. The movements of the crowd around him slowed to a glacial pace. His vision blurred, his ears felt like they were stuffed with cotton. Jack noticed he was holding his breath as he desperately tried to determine which way the flash had gone.
He furrowed his brow, squinting slightly. The shimmering purple glow appeared again, but this time it was farther in the distance. He was losing ground. It was moving away from him and he wasn’t sure in which direction. But then, by some incredible twist of fate, another lavender light flashed as clear as day a block ahead of them, traveling west.
“Mine!” Cal shouted. “I got that one, Jack!” he called as he bolted after it, leaving Jack in a swirl of car exhaust. He didn’t even bother to ask if Jack had his secured.
Turning back around, Jack scanned the crowd around him. He had just seen it. He’d only taken his eyes off his target for a second and it was gone. He turned to follow Cal, but he couldn’t see him anymore either.
“Shit,” he muttered to himself. “Shit, shit, shit.”
There was nothing to do but run. The last he had seen it, the purple flash far in front of him was heading south. His only chance was to blindly follow it and pray that it was still within reach. He took off through the crowds, looking frantically around him, but the light had disappeared. Then he realized that there was a subway station not far from where he was standing. The purple glow may have traveled underground.
He found the green orb marking the subway’s entrance and ran down the dingy silver stairs, forgotten pieces of gum, now a blackish pink, embedded in its ridges. Large clumps of dirt and filth covered the tile of the underground station he ran soundlessly over. It was rush hour and New York’s unique symphony—the synthesized tone of train doors opening and closing, the clicking of the turnstiles, the thump of a street performer’s boom box—filled the station.
There was a sea of travelers with purple knitted caps and scarves, violet shopping bags, plush lilac wool coats, but nothing glowed. Jack cursed. He would have to arbitrarily pick a subway line and go down to the tracks.
He ran to the closest entrance and descended another flight of stairs, almost tripping over one of its ancient, uneven steps. The platform was crowded, commuters packed shoulder to shoulder. He elbowed his way to the front of the line, walking over the ridges of the yellow metal safety strip at the edge of the platform. A few people around him grimaced, but it was the only way he’d get a decent view of the place and the crowd on the opposite platform. He scanned the mass behind him before turning his gaze across the platform. At first he didn’t believe his eyes.
There it was. Across the tracks, the purple glow undeniably radiating from this woman’s being like an aura. With her back turned to him, Jackson could see how the hue clung to her ratty shawl, her waist-length curly hair, scuffed leather boots, and long, gauzy skirt skimming the dirty floor of the platform. She was carrying a folded-up card table under one arm, the top of it fitting into the crook of her armpit, and held a small padded stool with black metal legs in the other. Probably a homeless person, he figured, which made Jackson breathe out a sigh of relief. It made his job a little easier. No one would miss her. This woman was it, exactly what he’d been searching for day and night for nearly three hundred and sixty-four days. She was his ticket out of the dangerous situation he and Cal were in. If he could just take what he needed from her, he’d be spared the fate that awaited him in less than a day. He stood there, stunned, as the realization washed over him. This was it. His torment would finally be over.
But he still needed to catch her first. And since she was on the platform across from him, she was on track to board a train going the opposite direction than the one he was standing on. He looked around quickly, not wanting to lose sight of her again, wondering what to do next. There was no other choice than to hop off the platform, cross the tracks, and follow her.
He bent at the waist and grabbed the edge of the platform before easing his body over it with a quick jump. Various pieces of litter—shattered glass bottles, empty Styrofoam containers, a knotted plastic bag—were scattered on the grimy floor. A rat the color of dishwater skittered by. No one around him noticed that Jack was standing in the middle of the tracks.
But when his eyes returned to the woman with the purple aura, he was almost sure he could scream out and someone would hear him. Because he could practically feel his stomach drop when he saw the woman slowly turn around. An older man with a crinkled map in his hand had tapped her on the shoulder and she’d spun around, gesturing like she was giving directions. She was deep in conversation with him. The relief he’d originally felt upon seeing his glowing target quickly vanished as he now saw her face. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again, hoping that what stood in front of him was a mirage. But it was unmistakable.
It was her. He’d never been able to forget that face. Every time he’d closed his eyes for the past year, it floated around in his mind’s eye—an odd mixture of guilt and pure want coursing through him. He never thought he’d ever see her again. And now he had...under the absolute worst circumstances imaginable.
Suddenly a horn sounded and the people up on the platform turned their attention to Jack’s left like one single entity. A faint white light was emerging from the tunnel—a light that was growing stronger and stronger. But still, no one looked down at Jackson. The light grew more intense until it was practically blinding him. The flat, silver head of the train was shining, its silvery surface reflecting the light like a mirror. The tracks underneath his feet rumbled with its barreling approach. The conductor was pulling the brake as it rolled into the station, and the train’s wheels emitted a high-pitched screech, but as it got within a foot of Jackson, it was still easily traveling at forty miles per hour.
Instinctively, Jackson flinched, tempted to throw his arms up and wrap them protectively over his face. He was still getting used to the fact that he didn’t have to.
The train didn’t strike him. Instead, it went through him with a powerful whoosh of air as he stood in the middle of the tracks. Because the truth was that Jackson Holloway had died almost a year ago at the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Eve.
Chapter Two
Charlotte Simms removed a hand from her pocket to pull her deep crimson shawl tighter around her. Plucking a loose string from the edge of the raggedy fabric, she took a look at her hand. Being out for so long in the biting December air had turned the skin pale white with a bluish twinge. But she knew she couldn’t go home just yet. Despite her best efforts—a sign reading Half Off Palm Readings crudely drawn in bubble letters that she’d affixed to the side of her card table with a shiny piece of duct tape—she hadn’t had a single customer that day. And she had tried all her usual hot spots—right outside of Port Authority, a bench on the southern border of Central Park where all the horse-drawn carriages strolled by, even the bustling streets of Times Square. And now she was here—her last stop of the day—in Tompkins Square Park. She’d sit it out for one hour before allowing herself to cross the street and finally go home.
She usually shuffled her tarot cards while she waited for patrons, but it was too cold for that today. She rubbed her hands together furiously before cupping them, drawing them in front of her face and trying to use her breath to warm them up. The effects were fleeting, her hands immediately returning to their frigid state the moment she stopped breathing into them. She sighed.
While she prided herself on being chipper and free-spirited, it was days like today—the freezing cold coupled by a customer-less day—that she felt the sting of the traumatic events that had brought her to telling fortunes on the street. She’d been a promising psychology student at a local CUNY college, about to start her last semester of school when one night two men clad in black ski masks robbed her entire life savings—all her money for tuition—when she was simply trying to take out twenty bucks from an ATM. Being out of school was especially hard for her since she’d started to really blossom in college. She’d had a group of friends and even a few boyfriends. But none of them knew her current circumstances. She’d disengaged, too embarrassed and traumatized to tell anyone what had happened.
Under normal circumstances, she would’ve been able to bounce back and return to school, but then in the economy her parents lost their jobs. And when they fell behind on the rent for their little walkup one-bedroom apartment the three of them squeezed into, her parents went to search for new jobs out West. Not wanting to be a burden to them—another mouth to feed, another person to clothe—Charlotte stayed behind. If it weren’t for those criminals, she’d be able to take care of her parents and earn the diploma she was so eager to feel in the palm of her hand. If it weren’t for those criminals, she wouldn’t have to endure the same nightmare—a replay of that traumatizing night—every single night since then.
But in the meantime, she’d do this. With rent and food to cover, raising enough money for that last semester would take many months, even years. Her first summer working on the curb had been a profitable one, but as the temperatures dropped, so did her income. Although it didn’t come with much prestige, she really did enjoy her new business endeavor. She liked meeting people from all walks of life. She had always been interested in the supernatural and was talented at reading people’s fortunes. Even if she did feel something negative in someone’s future, she tried her best to put a positive spin on it.
It felt good to practice a talent she had been ridiculed for in her youth. The other kids in her classes made fun of her mercilessly. And when a rumor spread that she could see spirits? Forget it. She became even more of a social outcast than she had been before. At the end of her junior year, she’d packed up her crystals and oils—and anything she used to toil around with—and put them away. Luckily, the teasing stopped, though she continued to see things, feel things others didn’t. She went from being tortured every day to being completely ignored. And the crushing loneliness of the latter somehow felt much worse. So when she dug out all of her materials and dusted them off this year, it almost felt like a relief. She’d forgotten how much she loved the craft.
While her new life wasn’t very glamorous, she reminded herself that there were people in much worse situations. She had an apartment—albeit a shabby one—but a roof over her head nonetheless, (barely) enough food to eat, and her health. That last part possibly being temporary if she stayed out in this cold any longer.
Charlotte breathed out a heavy sigh and felt her lips burn. They were beginning to get dry and chapped from the cold. She bent down to reach her fringed purse tucked neatly under her small metal stool and retrieved a pot of lip balm. Unscrewing the top, she swirled the pad of her pointer finger around a few times before applying it to her lips. They felt instantly soothed, as she faintly tasted the pineapple flavor. She brought the pot to her nose and inhaled deeply, the scent giving her the feeling of summer for just a few precious moments. But when she opened her eyes again, the dusting of snow that’d been falling earlier had turned into a heavier accumulation, the flakes now sticking to the benches and trees of the park around her.
She glanced across the street and saw two small children trying to scrape enough of the slushy white snow into their hands to make a respectable snowball. She smirked, thinking back to how snowball fights had been considered actual warfare in her old neighborhood when she was a kid. She drew her thumb up to her mouth and lightly bit her fingernail. Though it was a nearly a week after Christmas, the realization finally hit her. For the first holiday season ever, she was utterly alone. A small tear began to gather in the corner of her eye, but she looked down at the ground and blinked a few times, not allowing it to fall. When she glanced up, she noticed that she was being watched.
At first she thought the man was simply standing near the curb, waiting. Waiting to meet someone, on the lookout to hail a cab—she didn’t know. But after a while, he continued standing there, facing her, without moving a muscle. He had his arms folded in front of him, a pair of black fingerless gloves decorating his hands. He just stood there, his eyes never leaving her, his brow in a deep furrow as if he were trying to solve a complicated problem in his mind.
There was no look of menace etched onto his face. And though he was still across the street, she could detect something like pain in his eyes. Looking more closely, she realized there was something oddly familiar about him. She scanned him up and down, studying his features. Yes, he definitely looked familiar. Charlotte bit her lip, her eyes glancing slightly upwards as she concentrated, trying to place his face. She was struck with the distinct feeling that he was someone from her teenage years. And then, as if a curtain had been lifted, a name filled her head: Jackson Holloway. It was a face she hadn’t seen in a long time.
A flash of images played in her mind like a film reel. Doodling Mrs. Charlotte Holloway in curly script all over every one of her color-coded notebooks. Purposefully dropping more pens than she could count in hopes of feeling the brush of his hand, her heart aching each time his eyes refused to meet hers. Eating her lunch alone underneath the bleachers, fantasizing what it would be like for him to have his arm draped protectively over her shoulders as they walked through the hallways, steal a kiss on the stairwell of her apartment building, relish in the feeling of one of his hands slipping under her wool school uniform skirt, the soft pads of his fingers caressing her knee. Though he never acknowledged her existence, these were the thoughts, the fantasies that comforted her as she remained friendless, her social status plummeting in the exact opposite direction as her grades.
She was sixteen when she first laid eyes on him, Jack having transferred with his trusty pal Calvin by his side after being kicked out of the last school they were in. While he was hard and tough around the neighborhood—always getting into trouble—she had an inclination that behind closed doors, it was all an act. Whenever he did something terrible, there was a devious glint in Cal’s eyes that just didn’t exist in Jack’s. In her own little world, Jack would be tender towards her, gentle with her, as if she were a porcelain doll.
What a dreamer she’d been in high school. Her heart gave a twinge of discomfort when she recognized him. She squinted. She was sure it was Jackson Holloway. The same gorgeous bad boy that permeated her dreams just as fiercely as those intense hormones pumped through her teenage body. It must’ve been ten years since then. He’d grown at least a foot taller, his shoulders had become broader. He’d put on at least thirty pounds of pure muscle. But his face was a little thinner, leaner, accentuating his sharp cheekbones. The mop of black hair she remembered flopping into his eyes as a teen was now buzzed to a military crew cut so short it would make someone turn on a heel and run away if he ran into Jack in an alley at night. That was probably the look he was going for, Charlotte figured. Without a hat or skullcap, she wondered how he could walk around with his head so exposed; he had to be freezing.
He continued to stare at her. Was there a chance that he remembered her? He had absolutely no reason to, but then again, he wouldn’t be staring at her like that if he didn’t.
She put up a hand tentatively in greeting, urging him to come over. Her stomach fluttered in anticipation of his next move. Would he cross the street and approach her? He fidgeted with his glove for a second, but when he looked up again and saw her still motioning to him, he returned to being immobile, as if he’d been caught red-handed. He looked confusedly to his right and left and something in his eyes—a piercing gray that was as deep as a storm cloud—said Who, me?
She nodded, giving a small wave of her exposed hand. But something flashed over his face—was it fear?—and he looked as frantic as a trapped animal.
He shifted his weight from foot to foot as if he were debating something. He doesn’t recognize me, Charlotte thought to herself. Half of her burned with embarrassment at the thought and a part of her wished she’d never made a move. But the other half couldn’t help but feel excited at the idea that he’d come close to her. Not to mention happy that he was alive and safe, knowing full well that the people who typically perpetuated his kind of lifestyle were in jail. Or dead. Maybe he’d turned his life around just like she’d always hoped.
She waved to him again, but he remained still as a statue. Finally, after a few more agonizing seconds, he took a hesitant step forward, and then another, until he slowly made his way to the crosswalk. She felt a lump rise in her throat.
When he finally closed the gap between them, she could barely breathe. He was here, actually in the flesh. Though she hadn’t thought about him in a long, long time, her body seemed to remember the sensation of being around him like it was yesterday. Her tongue felt like it was made of lead as she looked him up and down. Luckily, he spoke first.
“Hi?” he said, the greeting coming out more like a question than a statement. A weird sense of trepidation filled his voice.
She smiled tightly and gave a small nod, desperately trying to hide her excitement. “Hi.”
He bent slightly to either side, looking around Charlotte and behind her. It was almost if he were checking if she were really there and not just a mirage.
Her brow wrinkled. Though he had no reason to remember her, there was something about his expression that made her think she was somehow familiar to him. But chances were that he wasn’t. So why was he staring at her like that?
She stuck out her hand, hoping he would take it.
For a second he looked at it as if it were a dangerous cobra about to strike. She felt a little weird, like he was going to leave her hanging, but then he reached out and his hand closed around hers. He gave her hand a few light squeezes like he was testing that it was an actual human hand and not one made of out clay. He glanced down at their joined hands like he was fascinated by them for some reason. His eyes were practically bugging out of his head. Suddenly, his hand traveled up her arm, lightly squeezing her forearm, her bicep, then her shoulder along the way. He seemed frantic, like he’d just discovered human contact. Before she knew it, he had drawn her into a full-on hug.
She immediately stiffened in his embrace and let out a startled laugh. A million thoughts raced through her head. Why was he hugging her? But then she realized that she didn’t care and drew him in closer.
She breathed in the scent of him, only to find that there wasn’t one anymore. She expected to smell the tobacco she remembered clinging to the clothes of all the “bad kids” Jack was known to hang out with, the kids her mother warned her to stay away from. And she did, but only because they’d never welcomed her into their circle. She’d longed to be around Jack as much as possible back then, and now here they were, ten years later—out of their neighborhood, embracing on the street. It was so bizarre. Now, when she breathed him in, she didn’t smell anything like what wafted from him when he sometimes walked in front of her in the hallways. Maybe he’d given up smoking. She smiled into his black canvas jacket and he squeezed her. She squeezed him back, her arms draped over his now broader shoulders.
Suddenly her body became less rigid and melted into the embrace. Her muscles softened as he leaned down, his chin now touching her shoulder, his lips lightly grazing her neck. She felt his warm breath tickle her skin with every exhalation. His hands slid down her shoulder blades before settling on the small of her back. Despite her shawl, she could feel the strength in his hands. She shivered, sucking in a sharp breath. Deep inside, she knew she wasn’t shivering from the cold. In fact, something was stirring inside her, a deep heat she hadn’t felt since the last time she saw him. She’d bet that if they held their embrace any longer, sweat would start to form on her forehead.
Jack pulled back, breaking the contact. They stood and looked at each other for a moment. He appeared deeply saddened and then suddenly uncomfortable at the outburst. She couldn’t read what was going through his mind. It was awkward.
“Well, that was weird,” Charlotte admitted, trying to cut the tension.
Jack laughed sheepishly. “Yeah.”
“So you remember me, Jack? I know we never really spoke, but...” Charlotte trailed off as she looked down. “It’s um, nice to see you.”
“You remember me?” Jack looked like he’d just been punched in the stomach. “You remember that night?”
