Anyone but Alex (The English Brothers Book 3) (17 page)

And here was Alex, giving her that chance.

It didn’t surprise Jessie that Alex should offer her this safe haven, this gentle space, where she could unwrap her memories. He was the same Alex who had been kind when she was so little, so sad, so desperately in need of someone to make her feel special and wanted. What Alex offered now was the same sanctuary he’d offered when she was a child, and it was achingly familiar. So, no, it didn’t surprise her, but oh God, how it seized and claimed something at the very depths of her being, confirming what she’d always known. This beautiful man, who traded in debauchery, was her inmost desire, the unlikely home of her heart.

“
He played Santa,” said Alex. “Do you remember that?”

She nodded, biting her lower lip.

“Yeah. Your Mom would put white shoe polish or something on his mustache, but it would sort of flake off as the kids climbed on his lap at the Westerly Christmas party.”

“That’s why the little kids alway
s went first,” she said, a tear snaking its way down her cheek.

Alex swiped it away,
resting on her smile for a moment before continuing. He understood. Somehow he understood that her tears didn’t mean
stop
, they meant
keep going
.

“He and my Dad would smoke cigars on the terrace sometimes
on a summer evening.”

“My mother hated it.”

“So did mine,” said Alex. “She’d say that Taylor Winslow was a bad influence.” He chuckled softly, but his smile faded. “Oh, sorry, Jess. She felt bad about that, I think. After he died.”

“He
was
a bad influence,” said Jessie, as she beamed at Alex through tears. “He was always sneaking us sweets after we’d brushed our teeth. Letting us stay up late to watch horror movies while my mother played bridge at the club.”

“He had that booming laugh,” said Alex. “Scared me a little when I was small.”

“I loved it,” said Jessie. “If I think hard, I can still hear it.”

“Me too,” said Alex, palming her face gently and using his thumbs to wipe away her tears. “It’s good to remember.”

“Thank you, Alex,” she said softly, and he pulled her into his arms, wrapping them around her as she swallowed the lump in her throat. His hands rubbed her back slowly and Jessie breathed deeply, memorizing the smell of Polo Black and pine and fresh country air mixed with leather and cotton. She rested her cheek on Alex’s chest, allowing him to comfort her in the darkened doorway of his apartment. The swelling of her heart told her what she already knew, what she’d known for years, what she’d
always
known.

She was desperately in love with Alex English.

Then. Now. Forever.

***

To prove that Susannah’s training hadn’t been in vain, Alex decided to whip up the prettiest little omelets he could manage with the slim pickings in his bachelor’s fridge. Grimacing as he checked out the questionable contents, he had no choice but to make due with some week-old Gouda that needed to be scraped a little, an onion, and Tarragon flakes. As Jessie walked around his apartment tentatively, Alex kept an eye on her from the kitchen.

Her arms were
crossed almost defensively, one hand holding the stem of a wineglass close to her chest. She stared at the slick black leather couch, black lacquered coffee table, side board, and bookcases. She looked down at the plush cream area rug that covered the space between the couch and fireplace, carefully stepping around it.

He knew what she was thinking—she’d been thinking it in the car and again in the hallway before he’d distracted her with stories of
childhood cooking lessons. She was thinking about the other women—the multitude of others who had come before. He could feel it, and he hated it. But while his life before Jessie was indefensible, he also couldn’t change it, and despite his ample warnings she seemed dead set on spending time with him. His mind cautioned softly that it couldn’t possibly be that simple—she couldn’t just accept her place in the middle of hundreds of other women—but Alex wanted her so badly, felt so grateful for the absence of that terrible ache that had plagued him for weeks. It was Jessie who somehow soothed his soul, who focused his attention on one perfect woman, who made “playing the field” temporarily obsolete. If she offered herself to him, even for the wistful space of four weeks, he didn’t have the strength or will to turn her away.

He cracked four eggs and added a little
Parmalat, mixing with a whisk just as Susannah had shown them all so long ago. Jessie stopped in front of his modern fireplace, checking out the framed painting over the mantle.

It was a new acquisition.
He’d called his decorator a few days ago and had the old one—an ancient Chinese rice paper print of two people fucking—swapped out for a modern piece. It had been an easy choice of the paintings offered. Shades of green fought for dominion on the canvas, but emerald won. The green was the exact shade of Jessie’s eyes, and as soon as Alex had seen a photo of the painting over e-mail, he asked for it to be framed, shipped and hung by Thanksgiving. No small feat, but with the right resources, not impossible either.

After a long moment,
Jessie turned to him. Her forehead was furrowed and her lips were soft, but closed in an expression at once curious and confused. She gestured to the painting.

“This is a Lila Leighton.”

“Mm-hm,” he said, placing an onion on a cutting board.

“An original.”

“As far as I know.”

She looked up at the painting again.
“Lila Leighton’s work just hit the Astraea Gallery in Manhattan eight days ago.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Which means you bought that painting this week.” Her eyes cut to his from across the room. “But it’s an especially odd choice for you… since as of Tuesday, you didn’t ‘get’ modern art.”

He shrugged, his cheeks flushing as he bent down to grab a frying pan from under the oven. When he
straightened, she had crossed the room and stood before him.

“Alex, w
hy did you buy that painting?” she asked, softly, searching his eyes.

Helpless.
He flicked his glance to the splotches of emerald green in the heart of the painting, then back to her. The truth tumbled from his lips without permission. “The green is the same color as your eyes.”

“You bought a
Lila Leighton
because of a shade of green?”

“
It’s the only shade of green that matters,” he explained.

She nodded,
clenching her jaw, her expression inscrutable. He wished he knew what was going on in her head. Was she freaked out that she’d mentioned an interest in modern art and he’d purchased an expensive piece, sight unseen, later that day?

Jessie
still had her coat on, her arms crossed over her chest, and suddenly Alex realized that part of the reason he’d purchased the painting was because if she ever came to his apartment he wanted her to feel at home. He wanted something in
his
space to belong to
her
.

Placing
the frying pan on the stove top and the whisked eggs in the fridge, he reached forward, tugging the wine glass from her fingers and setting it on the counter next to the cutting board. He put his hands gently on her forearms and pulled her arms away from her body. Holding her eyes, he slid her purse down her arm and placed it beside her wine. Carefully, he unbuttoned the black buttons of her coat and slid it down her shoulders, draping it over one of the kitchen chairs pushed into the table behind him.

“I bought it for you,” he whispered, baring his soul to her, hoping that she would see how much he wanted to be worthy of her, how much he wanted
her in his world for however long she was willing to stay.

She clenched her jaw
again and nodded, like she’d already known. Her eyes were heavy as they captured his.

“I’m going to fall in love with you,
Alex,” she murmured. “I’m sorry. I know that wasn’t the deal.”

And then he understood why she
’d looked so stricken ever since she’d seen the painting—not because she was freaked out or upset with him, but because of her feelings for him. It was staggering how deeply her admission affected him. For a moment—just a millisecond of a moment—his heart stopped beating. It stopped because it had to physically break free of the past before starting again. And when it did, it beat for her. Only for her.

Alex read her wide eyes and grim expression perfectly. She was waiting to see what
would happen next. She was giving him the chance to walk away, right here and now. She was telling him that if he had a problem with her loving him, now was the moment to say so.

His eyes swept
across her face, caressing it with his gaze, the tenderness he felt for her infused into his glance. He couldn’t say anything. He could only stare back at a face so lovely, so pure and beautiful, it made his chest full, it made his heart whole, it made him ache with a longing he’d never known. This girl—this rare, exceptional woman—made him, Alex English, the manwhore, the Casanova, the womanizing playboy…
helpless
.

So goddamned helpless.

He didn’t walk away.

He stepped forward.

Cupping her face with his hands, he lowered his head, dropping his lips to hers, which opened like petals, welcoming him into the sweet, wet heaven of her mouth with a surprised, relieved sigh. His tongue found hers, swirling around it, deepening the kiss as his hands skimmed down her cheeks, over the throbbing pulse in her throat, and down her back. Her arms looped around his neck, pulling him closer as she arched against his chest. Slipping his hands under the velvety texture of her sweater, he found a different softness altogether. The skin of her back was smooth and warm, and as he flattened his palms on the even plains, she whimpered, leaning into him to tell him she wanted more.

Holding her tight and
refusing to surrender her lips, he maneuvered her to his kitchen table, slipping his hands to her hips and lifting her. She widened her legs, beckoning him closer, welcoming him into her space. As he stepped between them, her hands reached for his hips, pulling the shirt from the waist of jeans, her fingers finding the warm, taut skin beneath as she pulled him as close as possible. His hands skated up her back again, finding the clasp of her bra and expertly unlatching it. Alex splayed his hands on the unobstructed skin of her back, dropping his lips to her throat as she arched against him again.

“Jessie, Jessie, Jessie
-girl, I want you so bad,” he murmured against her pulse, which raced and pleaded against the sensitive skin of her lips. He drew the heels of his hands forward until they pressed against the sides of her breasts, the softness so close and so enticing, he didn’t know how he was managing to move so slowly.

And then he did
know. He knew exactly.

This wasn’t a one-night thing. There was no rush. There was urgency, but instead of pushing things along as quickly as he usually did, he wanted to draw out every touch, every sigh, every murmur. He wanted to
record all of it and save it in some corner of his heart earmarked for Jessie. Later, when she was gone, if he could bear it, he’d be able to revisit the memory of what it felt like to be with her, to be with someone he loved for the first time in his life.

Jessie moaned as his fingers tilted up like a fan, each digit brushing her sensitive nipples
in turn until his fingers splayed perfectly over the hot, heaving flesh of her breasts.

“Alex,” she whimpered, shimmying forward on the table to press her pelvis against his
, surging forward into him as she leaned her forehead on his chest in surrender.

His erection strained
uncomfortably against his jeans as he pressed up against her, dipping his head to take her lower lip between his. At the same time he squeezed her nipples between his fingers, eliciting a louder whimper from Jessie. She grabbed his lip with her teeth and curled her fingers into his hips. He gasped from the sensation of her nails biting into his skin and thrust his tongue into her mouth, rolling one nipple between his thumb and forefinger as he cupped her other breast in the palm of his hand.

If she didn’t still have her sweater on, he would have dropped his lips to that pebble of flesh and sucked it into his mouth until she writhed against him
, begged him to stop, and pleaded with him for more. And he knew she would. The rising heat between them was white hot and so intense, his breathing became ragged as he imagined them in his bed together.

As if reading his mind, her fingers released his hips and
reached for the hem of her sweater, pushing it up over her belly, over her breasts, baring them to him.

Alex drew back, looking into her eyes as he pulled
the sweater and bra quickly over her head. Her fingers trembled as they worked on the buttons of his shirt, finally opening it and dragging it down over his shoulders. He reached behind his neck and yanked his undershirt over his head, baring his chest to her as she had to him. But before reaching for her, he flattened his palms on the table on either side of her hips, exercising a level of self-control he didn’t know he had. He wouldn’t even drop his eyes to her breasts until she gave him permission.