pamela burford

"Let's hear it for Jack Wolf from Pamela Burford's Jacks Are Wild. A bad boy with gentleman instincts, this sexy W.I.S.H. hero warms our hearts and fires our fantasies with his winning ways . . . Blending just the right amount of sizzle, warmth and strong plotting, Pamela Burford dishes up a superior recipe for a delectable reading treat."



"Oh, what fun you'll have reading this snappy, entertaining, story! . . . Ms. Burford once again gives readers witty dialogue and hot sensuality. Thank you very much!"

He closed the door. She heard the lock click.

Meg sat up straighter in the tub and reached for the portable shower head before he could commandeer it. “Goodbye, Jack.”

He slid his hands into the pockets of his jeans and walked casually to the tub. He was wearing that old, sleeveless Binghamton sweatshirt that should have gone in the trash bin years ago. He looked pumped; the muscles in his arms stood out in sharp relief. She recalled then that when she’d last seen him, he was heading outside to chop wood.

He said, “Why so nervous? I don’t bite.” He squatted by the tub and dragged his fingertips through the water. “Want me to hotten this up for you?”

She didn’t respond, knowing full well that his preferred method of “hottening up” her bath had nothing to do with adding warm water. She turned on the faucet and adjusted the spray, then tipped her head back and rinsed her own hair, thank you very much.

Belatedly she realized that her arched position afforded her ex-husband quite an eyeful. She held the shower head with one hand and finger-combed her hair with the other to get all the suds out. If she’d had a third hand, she’d have clapped it over his eyes.

“Stop staring at me,” she demanded.

“You’ve got to be kidding.” He gave her a wicked smile.

“You have no shame.”

“Just figured that out, did you?”

She directed the spray at his face. Laughing, he turned off the water, rendering her weapon useless. He pulled his soggy shirt over his head and shook his wet hair in her face.

“I mean it!” she said. “What if Winston finds you in here?”

“You expecting him?” He tossed the shirt in a corner.

“Maybe.”

She was a lousy liar. And he knew it. “You think there’s room in this big old tub for the three of us?” He reached for his belt buckle.

She grabbed his hand. “Don’t you dare!”

He relented and picked up the bar of soap instead, wetting it and rolling it in his hands. His chest was wider, his stomach harder, his shoulders broader than she remembered. Under the dark hair that fanned out from the middle of his chest, his skin had a residual summer tan.

He said, “Remember when we used to take baths together?”

She didn’t want to remember. “I’ve already washed.”

“You can never be too clean.”

He replaced the soap in its dish and glided his hands over her stiff back. The stark pleasure of his touch sent her resolve into a tailspin. He was kneeling now, his warm breath wafting over her, mingling with the fragrant, steamy air. Gradually she felt herself relaxing.

“We used to wash each other, remember?” He moved to the arm nearest him, soaping and stroking it with those long, strong fingers. “I’d do your back and you’d do mine. And we’d move on from there, inch by inch, until I was hard as a post, and you were—”

“Don’t,” she pleaded, remembering all too well the baths and showers they had shared. They had teased each other far past the point of simple foreplay, until the need was almost painful, a deep, grasping hunger that pulsed like a heart, there where she needed him most. It had been a game, a mutual challenge to see which one of them would beg for it first.

He’d had enormous control. Despite her determination, she would almost always break down first, clutching him, opening to him, shamelessly pleading. Anything to feel him inside her. And he would smile that wicked smile and, more often than not, torment her for another few excruciating minutes before giving her what she needed.

“You do remember,” he murmured, reaching for her other arm.

She closed her eyes, shielding her thoughts, knowing he could read her all too well.

She let her arm go limp. He lifted it, caressing it with his soap-slick hands, working the lather along her fingers and between them, before lowering her arm to the water.

He said, “Some things, it’s hard to forget.” When she didn’t respond, he went on the attack and asked, “How about you and the counselor? You ever get dirty while you’re getting clean?”

Her eyes snapped open. “You have no right to ask that.”

“You’re right. Answer it anyway.”

As if she’d give him the satisfaction!

Unfortunately, she didn’t need to. One look at her face triggered a smile of pure male arrogance.

“I didn’t think so.” He soaped his hands once more. “At least there’s one thing you’ve done only with me.”

He started to wash her breasts, as casually as you please. She seized his wrists, sitting up straighter. “Jack . . .” He ignored her protests, gliding his hands slowly over her skin, following her contours.

She felt drugged by his touch, making it hard to remember why she shouldn’t let him do this. He gently twisted free of her hold and set her arms at her sides. She left them there.

“Lean back,” he said, and exerted mild pressure until she was lying against the slope of the tub, submerged to just above her waist. He rinsed his hands and rolled a towel to cushion her head, then lifted her arms to rest on the sides of the tub. Her engagement ring clicked on the porcelain, a less-than-subtle reminder.

Oh yeah. That’s why I shouldn’t do this.

“Let me pamper you,” he said.

“Is that what you’re doing?” she asked dryly.

He met her eyes directly, with the hint of a smile, an expression at once candid and mysterious. Her pulse jumped and she stifled a whimper of longing.

Two years.

Too damn long.

She shouldn’t permit this. She mustn’t permit this. She was an engaged woman. Jack no longer had a claim on her.

But he wasn’t acting as if he had a claim on her. He was beguiling her, seducing her. And heaven help her, she was allowing it.

He picked up the soap again, and she let her eyes drift shut. One minute. Maybe two. Then she’d stop him.