Read Storms and Dreams (Becoming Jane Book 3) for Free Online

That’s what Thomas had said .
    “Right. Breathe. Unfold. Got it,” I said grimly.
    “Oh Jane,” she said, sighing heavily. “Look, I’ve got to run. I’ve got to catch a flight to New York. But call me again if you need me. I’m always here.”
    “Thanks. What’s in New York?”
    “A property I’m buying. I’m opening another club.”
    “Oh wow. I had no idea.”
    “I know. I’ve been quiet about it. But…”
    “What is it?” I asked her, my curiosity piqued.
    “Listen, I was hoping to bring it up formally with you, in person. But along the lines of your plans to make plans…there’s a job for you in New York if you want it. Running a club for me. Well, co-managing. I’d like you to be in charge of all the, shall we say, aesthetics. The food, the acts, the decor.”
    “Oh my God, Sash. I’d love to do that.”
    “Mmmm.” She laughed. “I thought you might.”
    “Holy crap, that would be amazing. But…”
    “What?”
    “Well, if I move to New York… Thomas, he’s here, in Maine.”
    “For now,” she said. “I assume he’ll be going back to England eventually.”
    “Right.” I swallowed hard, sad at the thought of never seeing Thomas again.
    “Each decision as it comes, darling,” Sasha said. “My car’s here. I’ve got to run. Take care, love.”
    “Thanks Sasha. I will.”

3
    “ O h God , you are a treasure.” Thomas’ voice hummed from the kitchen doorway. “Coffee, muffins and what’s that?” he said, sniffing the air. “Bacon? You’ll spoil me.”
    “I’m giving it a try,” I said, glancing up to smile at him. He was bare-chested in a loose pair of trousers. Beltless, they hung low on his hips, the barest trail of dark hair peeking from the waistband. “It’s the least I could do after this amazing weekend you put together.” I swallowed and turned back to the bacon that was crisping in the pan on the stovetop.
    “Tell me,” he said, sidling up next to me, pulling a coffee mug from the cupboard and pouring himself a cup. “Which part do you like best? The five-star meal served by a one-star chef, the power blackout that subsequently plunged the whole house into nearly freezing temperatures, or waking in the dead of night, to find your host blubbering in the rain?”
    “Oh stop it,” I said, lifting the last of the bacon to a paper towel to drain. “It was fine.”
    “A-ha, so it’s the blubbering, then,” he said as he leaned against the counter opposite me. Lips pursed, he blew on his coffee, arched an eyebrow and smiled over the rim of the mug. “I don’t do that for all the girls, you know. You’re special.”
    “Thomas,” I said, giggling. I set the plate of bacon on the counter next to him and rubbed his arm reassuringly. “It’s okay.”
    “Really?” he said, capturing my hand. He set the coffee mug on the counter and stopped my retreat. “Last night’s unfortunate display didn’t damage the picture of masculine perfection that you no doubt held of me prior?”
    “Picture of masculine perfection?” I laughed nervously as his eyes traveled over my body. He stalked towards me, backing me into the cabinets on the opposite wall. “That’s a pretty lofty assumption you’re making there, buddy.”
    “If I recall correctly,” he said, skirting a finger under the collar of my shirt, “you rather like it when I’m, lofty.”
    “Um, yeah,” I said, swallowing hard, a picture of the night before, that last time we were in the kitchen, coming into my mind. I tingled at the memory, me folded in his arms like an origami doll as he sunk his cock into me over and over, and clenched my thighs together to ease the dull ache that was starting to throb between my legs.
    “I like your shirt.”
    “It’s yours,” I whispered.
    “Yes,” he said, chuckling. “Yes, I know. But you look better in it than I do. It’s terribly becoming on you.” His hands settled at my waist, his fingers massaging me through the fabric.
    “Your breakfast is