When The Stars Align

by Jolie, Isabel

  Jackson studies my feet, as if examining my navy nail color. Minutes pass, and I hear a quiet, “Yeah, I agree. About the kiss.” He’s quiet after his admission, and so am I. I’m about to suggest we pick a movie when he asks, “Have you ever thought about what would have happened if we’d taken jobs in the same city?”

  His question surprises me. “Hmmm. If we’d planned to move to the same city, we wouldn’t have fought.”

  He nods, silent, contemplative.

  “But, Jackson, I’m glad we went to different cities.”

  He jerks back and drops my foot. “You are?”

  “Yeah. I wanted to make it on my own. I needed to. I think.”

  He studies me and reaches out to grab the remote, then pauses. “Right now, that’s what I need. To be on my own. Work has to be my top priority.”

  I get it. I do. Jackson has a lot to prove to his dad. To his family. His dad wanted him to join his company, and he chose law. No one gets it more than I do. I nod to show him I understand.

  He squeezes my foot. “But if things were different, if dating made sense for me, there’s no one I’d rather date than you.”

  Swoon. Right there. Swoon. “Right back at you.”

  He frowns. “Why exactly is dating not in the cards for you right now?”

  I heave out a sigh and run my hand through my hair. “I’m kind of in the same boat, work-wise, I guess? I’m a creative director. I have a team of people, almost all older than I am, reporting to me. I’m doing work on three accounts plus helping out on new business when I get the chance. It’s a lot.” Green eyes study me. “My parents never wanted me to have a career. They wanted me to get married. It was…I don’t know. Both my parents aren’t here now, so maybe it’s ridiculous. But I feel like I have something to prove. If not to them, to myself. Does that sound crazy?”

  He raps his foot on the floor several times in quick succession. “No. Not at all. Doesn’t answer why you can’t date, though.”

  “Why is work a satisfactory answer for you and not for me?”

  He chuckles and leans over to tap his finger on the tip of my nose. “Good point.”

  We both sip our wine.

  “Over the last four years, have you dated?”

  I shake my head. He raises an eyebrow, questioning. “You’ve got to understand. My last four years have been intense, to say the least.”

  “How so?”

  “Less than a year after graduation, my dad was diagnosed with lung cancer. It was a tough time. Lots of trips back home. He passed away two years ago. Then, about a year later, my mom passed away. Suddenly. Heart attack.”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t even imagine how difficult it would be. Losing both your parents so close together.”

  “We had a lot of stuff between us. Things we never worked through. The fact we never buried the hatchet, so to speak, made it more difficult.”

  “What things did you never work through?”

  “Things. Stuff with my ex.” I tilt my head and study the wine in my glass. “Do you mind if we don’t talk about it?”

  “Sure.”

  “Can we just watch the movie?”

  We pick Voyeur. It’s a documentary about a guy who bought a motel in Colorado in the sixties and watched the guests from a secret room he built above the hotel. He watched for decades and chronicled everything he saw in notebooks. It’s disturbing but also weirdly sexy at times.

  About midway through, it loses appeal. Jackson’s fascinated by potential legal ramifications, and he’s researching legal statutes. My heart goes out to the old men seeking fame this one last time in their lives. Both the voyeur and the journalist covering the story are, at the end of the day, seeking one last moment in the limelight.

  “What do you do for sex?” Jackson’s deep timbre breaks me out of my forlorn thoughts about the two elderly men.

  The direct question surprises me, and I can’t help but laugh. The buzz of the wine makes me bold and open. “You saw my basket in the bathroom. I have more in my bedside table.”

  His face breaks into a huge, boyish smile.

  “What?” I ask, grinning. I know exactly what he’s thinking about.

  “That’s quite a collection.”

  My cheeks burn with embarrassment. “Yeah. I’d hoped you’d miss those.” Awkward. I ramble on. “But they serve a purpose. To answer your question.” I lift my eyebrows and smirk. It’s hard to have a serious conversation about masturbation toys.

  Jackson grins. “So, vibrators in lieu of sex. Do you go on casual dates?”

  I swirl the wine in my glass as I answer. “No. There’s no point. I don’t want a relationship. I was in a relationship for four years. It’s not what I want. Not right now. I want to focus and concentrate on me. Living my life, for myself. That’s what I want right now.”

  “Women tend to say they don’t want a relationship when they want to have sex with all kinds of different people and want to justify it.” I study Jackson as I finish off the wine. His bare feet are kicked out on the coffee table. The man has sexy feet. What man has sexy feet? The worn jeans have a frayed hem ending near his ankle, where a few black hairs curl.

  “That’s not it. Not for me. Promise. And besides, what about you? You don’t want a relationship either,” I answer after a silent moment passes. He’s being pretty judgmental for someone standing in my shoes.

  He shrugs in a noncommittal way, but it’s obvious he’s fighting a smile. “I’m not against relationships. I just don’t have time for one.” He reaches over and pinches my leg. “You didn’t really answer my question.”

  I open my mouth, torn between jumping on him for a somewhat chauvinistic attitude or joking around. “You mean about sex? You saw my collection. Stop asking!” I take a throw pillow and toss it at him, laughing. “What do you do for sex?”

  He smirks. Shoulders back, arms crossed, he communicates an odd combination of both proud and defensive. “I have sex. I don’t date.”

  Now I’m curious. “Where do you find willing women?”

  He runs his hands through his hair. “Bars. Around town. There are women who want the same thing.” Perhaps his earlier comment about women is based on experience.

  “Doesn’t it get exhausting?”

  “What?”

  “Finding random people to hook up with.”

  His forehead wrinkles as his eyebrows raise slightly. “Yeah, it does. I don’t do it all the time. Only when I need a release.”

  “I guess I don’t know how to do casual sex. I’m not a ‘meet them at a bar, bang them in the bathroom, and say goodbye’ kind of girl. That’s never appealed to me. I feel like after the first date, expectations are set. I’d expect that’s even more true after sex. Titles are applied. Girlfriend. Boyfriend. I can’t begin to imagine how the casual dating scene works.”

  “Speaking from experience?” He squints, taking me in.

  “Yeah.”

  “Not from us, though, right? Did you think I—”

  “No,” I jump in. “No, not you. Not us. Back then. My first boyfriend. Let’s just say it was a lot. With you, at Carolina, since we were already going different places and we were both so busy, I never felt pressured.” I pause and pull a throw up around me. “At least, until you told me to get a different job and move to Atlanta.”

  He jerks back. “I did not tell you any such thing.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “No, I didn’t. You are wrong.”

  “Yes, you did!”

  Without any warning, he lunges over me, and I squeal. He’s all hands, grabbing my waist and tickling. I screech and wiggle, and we’re both laughing.

  I squeal, “I give. I give. Stop. Stop.”

  “You admit I didn’t tell you to do anything?”

  “Yes.” No. I pull back, and we’re both breathless. “Do you do this to everyone you interrogate?”

  He bites his lip and grins. “Only stubborn ones. Only you.” Jackson jumps off the sofa and heads in
to the kitchen. He comes back with a second bottle of wine and fills our glasses. He sits down, and his eyes sparkle. “I have an idea. A proposal of sorts. Something that might work for both of us.”

  “A proposal?”

  He nods, a big grin on his face. He reminds me of an errant boy up to no good. “Yeah, we’re friends. Right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We’re good friends. Known each other for years. Comfortable with each other. Well, as you are aware, I’m not looking for a relationship at all. As a matter of fact, I spend so much time at work, no one in her right mind would even want a relationship with me.” His speech picks up tempo, faster and faster.

  “Yeah?” My head swirls with a slight buzz, and I find myself focusing on his biceps and forearms. He’s wearing a braided leather bracelet with silver endings. Dark hair covers his arms, and I have an urge to reach over and rub my fingers through it. He’s stopped talking. I raise my eyes to his. Dark, green, hungry eyes.

  “What about friends with benefits?”

  I snort. “What?”

  He holds up a hand and attempts a serious, firm expression. “No decision tonight. Think about it. Neither of us wants a relationship. If I’m being honest, I actually don’t like dating. I find it to be time-consuming. I do occasionally hook up with women I meet out at bars, but I’d rather not have to make the effort.”

  “The effort? Really? You mean talking to a woman?” I remember him in college. Girls surrounded him. Now that he sports suits and has a powerful air, I imagine the only difference between college and now is he’s surrounded by women of all pedigrees.

  “No, I mean going to bars. Playing the game, flirting, trying to get them home with clear expectations for no follow-up.”

  Grinning, I gaze at him, amused at his explanation.

  “Don’t knock me on this. To some degree, you feel the same way I do. You don’t like dating, or at least you don’t seem to. Casual hookups aren’t necessarily the best.”

  I roll my eyes. The two of us are similar, but he’s being ridiculous. Friends with benefits never works.

  “You and I, we already know we’re sexually compatible.” He’s right, there. If a girl had a spank bank, I’d say our two months together in Chapel Hill fills a large percentage of mine. “You won’t feel like you are at risk of slipping into a relationship, because it’s not an option with us. It’s not something either of us wants. I’m not going to try to apply the girlfriend title. Casual can work because we’ll agree to it before anything starts. And we’ll still be friends. We’ll be intimate with someone we care about. Which, I suspect, Anna, is the only kind of intimacy you want.”

  Right again. After the one night with Nick, there aren’t enough words to describe how dirty and ashamed I felt. Embarrassed. Wrong. I’m still dealing with the aftermath of my drunken mistake.

  My skin tingles. My heart beats faster. He slides closer. Temptation. He’s gorgeous. Maybe more so now. My body thrums with anticipation. I swallow. Damn the wine. Is the wine making this whole crazy idea seem reasonable?

  He doesn’t want a girlfriend. I don’t want a boyfriend. But we both like sex. He’s not going to tell me what to wear, or who I can be friends with, or how to spend my time.

  “Would you want to do that with me? I mean, are you attracted to me?” Without doubt, I’m attracted to him. My body reacts when he’s near. Tingling or goosebumps. My heart races. But he’s the picture of calm. When we’re running or talking, he never shows any signs he’s into me. He’s buttoned up, a consummate professional. I can’t imagine I’m his type.

  In answer to my question, Jackson takes my hand and places it on his crotch. My fingers curl around the curve of his hard-on. Without thinking, I circle my hand over the bulge, rubbing and stroking. He grunts.

  “Do you feel this? How hard you make me? That’s what you do to me. I wouldn’t have suggested this if I didn’t want it.”

  I squeeze my legs together, my muscles tingling with anticipation. Heat floods my center. Without a shadow of a doubt, I’m dripping, ready. It’s been so long—so long since I’ve had something other than my own fingers or a battery-operated toy.

  “Okay,” I agree, butterflies in my stomach. This could work. No slipping. An agreement to be casual.

  He crawls over me, pushing me back and pressing his weight between my thighs. We’re eye to eye. He rotates his hips, rubbing his crotch against mine, eliciting a moan. From me. From him. I’m not certain. “We’ll take it slow. We won’t have sex tonight, but we’ll take our time leading up to it. Make sure you’re still on board with our plan tomorrow. Sound good?”

  I lift his t-shirt and run my hands over the smooth, firm skin of his back. Oh. My. My fingers explore the dips and valleys of the strong, toned muscles on his torso. The curve of his pecs. I swallow. “Okay.”

  He drops his mouth to mine, and our tongues dance back and forth. Soft, testing at first, and then our kiss becomes heated. Ravaging. His body rubs against my clit, the sensation bringing me close to climax. We’re dry fucking like teenagers. The rubbing against my swollen labia stokes my libido. I lift my hips, begging for more, and he picks up his pace. I grip his shirt, and we separate long enough for me to tug it off, tossing it on the floor.

  He grabs the hem of my tank and slides it over my head. He sits back on his heels, his gaze devouring me. “You are gorgeous. Your breasts are even better than I remember. Perfect.” He bends down and presses his lips to my breast softly at first, then circles my erect nipple with his tongue before sucking it. His tongue twirls as he sucks, and I arch my back. Sensations ripple through my body as he plucks and nips, his hands caressing and kneading. I scream out in ecstasy, the mixture of pain and pleasure bordering on too much.

  “Shh,” he whispers. “We can’t have Lester lodging a complaint.”

  He’s funny. But as soon as his mouth returns to lavish attention on my other nipple, the humor escapes me. My hips grind against him. His erection rubs between my legs, lighting up my bundle of nerves, but it’s not enough. I want more. I need him. Inside. “Please,” I gasp. “More.” I reach between us, fumbling with his jeans.

  “Yeah?” He grunts out the question.

  “Yeah.” Oh, god. Yes!

  He shifts downward, and I miss his weight and the friction. He presses soft kisses down my stomach until he reaches the waist of my pajama pants. Lying to my side, he grabs my pants and panties and pulls them down below my knees, using his foot to push them all the way down. He sits up to gently maneuver around my injured ankle and then throws them on the floor.

  I’m lying there naked before him.

  He pauses, taking me in. “So gorgeous.”

  I want him. He said we won’t tonight, but I’m too excited. Too turned on. I want him. I want to seduce him. Make him say yes. I palm my wet channel, one finger teasing along the crease, sliding in and out, spreading my juices. My other hand twists my nipple and fondles my breast. My sensations are heightened, knowing he’s watching. I’m dripping. I rub harder, faster, reveling in the feeling of the heel of my hand applying pressure to my sensitive clit. He watches me, eyes dark. He pushes his jeans down and kicks them off. His hand wraps around his hard cock and strokes.

  I’m not sure what possesses me, but I lick then suck my juices off my fingers. We’re taunting each other. Teasing. Apparently, sucking my fingers was all I had to do to get him moving again.

  He growls and falls onto me. His erection lies flat against my naked stomach. He plunders my mouth with a hunger and need that leave me breathless and wanting. He’s familiar, yet new. I want to acquaint myself with every inch of his delectable body.

  I wrap my legs around his waist, attempting to situate his cock near my throbbing entrance. His tip teases and dips into my wetness. He pauses, watching, shifting his hips back and forth. His tip slides in. Then out. We both watch, and I shudder. He sits back, placing distance between us, and kisses me, repeating his path around my breasts, sucking and softly biting my ni
pples, before continuing down. Hovering over my pussy, he looks up at me, eyes questioning and asking permission.

  “Please,” I breathe.

  His tongue licks between my folds, teasing, then dives deeper. My back arches in ecstasy. Magic. His tongue. I lift up on my elbows, so I can watch as he hungrily laps up my wetness. His tongue finds my button, and he sucks then nips. He slips two fingers inside, and I ignite. My heart pounds, and my muscles tense so much my toes curl. “Oh, my. Jack!” The orgasm unfurls through my body with ripples of pleasure. Slippery wetness drips from between my legs.

  He climbs up my body and lies beside me, our naked chests against one another. He gives me a slow, tender kiss, and I drink him in, tasting myself, mixed with him. His firm, thick cock presses against my belly. I wrap my hand around him and squeeze then stroke.

  He pulls back and rubs a hand along my face and growls, “If you keep doing that, do you think I’ll have the willpower to hold back from sinking into you?”

  That’s exactly what I want. I want him inside me. I don’t stop. I stroke and rotate my hips. He rubs against me, teasing me, making me want nothing more than his cock inside me, filling me. He nips at my earlobe and hisses, “Not a chance.”

  I groan. His movements elicit a flood of sensations, the pressure on my engorged clit building me toward a second orgasm. “I want that. I want your cock inside me.”

  He closes his eyes, growling as he rubs against me harder. His tip, firm and hard, teases my entrance. I swivel my hips to capture him, to pull him inside to satiate the burning need.

  He grips my hips. I look up, questioning. Does he not want this?

  He swallows and presses a firm kiss on my lips, his hands firmly holding my hips in place. “I said we would go slow. Let’s go slow.” He shifts, and his throbbing cock presses against my belly, just above my wet, swollen entrance.

  “This is slow?”

  “Yes, no sex tonight.”

  “But what about you? I want to make you feel good.”

  “Well, I didn’t say you couldn’t go down on me,” he says with a wolfish grin.