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Hands On

Written by Clare Connelly

Chapter Eleven

EIGHT MONTHS AFTER WORKING with Jack and things haven’t slowed down.

I still work more hours than is wise; I live and breathe his business interests. But I’m better at it now. It comes as easily to me as walking.

I stare at the clock on my desk. It’s after ten in the evening, but I heard his door shut an hour or so earlier.

I don’t think it’s wise to go to him in his bedroom of this wing… I’ve been in there a few times and the bed is a distraction that somewhat undermines whatever reason I originally had for seeking him out.

But I need his signature on these documents urgently—doing business with Australia brings the time zones into play and I want them to hit our Australian lawyers’ desks before the end of day.

Will he still be awake or, God, in bed? Will I wake him? Will he be groggy? Dressed? Naked?

I know he sleeps naked.

Jack is not at all self-conscious about his body—why the hell should he be? And I’ve endured many conversations with him in a state of almost complete undress. He doesn’t even seem to notice. But I do.

I notice and I hold on to the optics of that, knowing I will put them to good use in my dreams later that night.

That reminds me—I need batteries.

My cheeks flush as I push the thought aside, moaning softly at the perpetual state of sexual purgatory I’ve stumbled into.

Fuck it. If I get him to sign these papers, I can scan them, email them, and call it a night.

It’s strange how this office on the edge of the Heath has started to feel more like home than my own—despite the fact it is new and I should be madly in love with feathering my nest. Isn’t that the way it’s meant to go?

Grandma will come and stay soon. That will help.

I pause on the threshold of his room for a moment and then knock three times, loud and sharp, so there can be no doubt about the fact I’m there. If he is asleep, it should have woken him—and hopefully, he’ll have at least pulled boxer shorts on before coming to the door.

I hear noises. Is he watching TV?

He yanks the door inwards, his brows drawn together. Thank God. He’s wearing black briefs, though they do very little to conceal his spectacular masculine form from my very curious eyes. It is with great effort that I keep my attention on his face.

“Gemma?” He is confused. There is an expression on his face I do not recognize.

Guilt?

That doesn’t make sense.

A noise behind him catches my attention and I look over his shoulder, expecting to see the TV I had presumed he was using.

And instead my eyes land on a flesh-and-blood woman. Like a supermodel, straight from a billboard, all tousled black hair and sexy Victoria’s Secret lingerie, her skin pale like clotted cream, her lips bright red. She is sitting in the wingback armchair at the foot of his bed, her cheeks flushed, and I am in no doubt as to what the hell I’ve interrupted.

Holy shit.

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Clare Connelly

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