by S. E. Harmon
“Fuck,” he whispered.
I concur. There was no other word on earth to describe how it felt right then, feeling him sliding inside of me. No words for the thick, full feeling, the suction and release of my overly aroused flesh. Nothing logical, that was. Besides, “fuck” just seemed to fit the bill so nicely.
He withdrew and entered me over and over again, slow and deep, my hands locked around his biceps, my legs wrapped around his waist. It wasn’t long before he cursed again and broke that steady rhythm. I thought I liked slow and steady, but goddamn, feeling him hammer away at me was something even better. Sweat dripped from his brow and fell on my breasts, and I liked that, too. I liked to think I helped by raising my hips to meet his suddenly frenzied pace, but in reality, Jackson on a mission was something to behold. All I could do was hang on.
I threaded my fingers through his hair and he shook me off, pinning my hands to the mattress in response, one hand securing them together at my wrists. His other hand returned to spread my legs even further apart, if that was even possible. With his face buried in my neck, his mouth hot and open, my body filled with his, the sound of our breathing harsh in my ears, I felt like there wasn’t one part of me he hadn’t touched. Not one part that wasn’t filled with the scent of him. The smell of him. I bit his shoulder and relished in his answering growl. The taste of him.
I loved every fucking minute.
“Avery…baby, I can’t—”
“You don’t have to,” I managed, and he reared back, head thrown back, strong column of his throat exposed, tendons straining against the tanned skin as he cried out. I tried to watch as long as I could, the sheer beauty of him in the midst of an orgasm, losing absolute control, but I only had a few seconds before that tell-tale tingling sensation raced up my spine. I could only cry out incoherently, shuddering as the storm took me, too.
We lay there for a while, tangled up in the sweaty sheets, not speaking a word. I could still hear my heart beating loudly in my ears. He wasn’t exactly a lightweight, and he was going to have to move eventually, but not right now. Not yet. Every moment was still narrowed down into one, a pinhole of focus, and I didn’t want to ruin it by moving. It was wonderful. Elemental. Spiritual. I was seeing a white light, like a beam from heaven…wait no, I was suffocating to death.
I tapped his flanks. “Off, you big lug,” I muttered. “Too heavy.”
His chuckle was soft in my ear. Good to know my suffocation was amusing to the bastard. “I’m quite comfortable.”
“Hope you’re charged,” I managed, “with my murder.”
“Drama queen.” He rolled off, but took his slow, sweet time doing so. “It’d be negligent homicide at best.”
I listened to him moving about the room as he disposed of the condom and flipped off the lights. Then his soft curse as he stubbed his toe on the nightstand before he clambered back in bed. After his usual routine of flipping and flopping, pillow punching and sighing, he finally settled down.
I still couldn’t move a muscle. I was pretty sure my body was frozen in this position, on my back, hands clasped on my chest as if dead.
“You okay?” he finally asked.
Define okay. One day in and I was pretty sure I was not cut out for casual sex. Because if I was, I would be basking in the glow of the best sex of my life. I wouldn’t be thinking about reaching over to interlace our fingers together. Just so I could be close to him for a little while longer.
“Avery?”
There was a rustle of sheets as Jackson sat up on one elbow, peering down at me. His hair was mussed and his mouth kiss-swollen, and I’d left marks on his neck that made me blush. He looked wrecked. When his eyes crinkled in concern, I realized that not only had I not answered his question, but I’d been staring at him for quite some time now.
“Yeah. I’m fine,” I finally answered, my voice a little shaky. Mostly because I was pretty sure I’d messed up. I didn’t want him for anything casual. I wanted him for good. “Are you?”
He stared at me for another moment, before his mouth lifted. He reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear even though I was pretty sure my whole head was a mass of tangled hair at this point. “You feel it too, don’t you?”
I didn’t speak for a few moments, wondering how much I should admit. How much was safe to say. I had a feeling if I said “feel what,” I would break whatever tenuous thing we had created, and even though I wanted space, wanted him out of my head, with all my doubts and fears, I wasn’t willing to do that.
“Can we talk about something else?” I finally croaked.
His eyes were filled with promise. Maybe he wasn’t going to force me to face it now, but eventually I’d have to. Because what we’d just shared damn sure wasn’t casual. And you didn’t find it every day. But apparently, I’d bought a reprieve.
He reached over, pulling my arm gently, using it to tow me across the bed. I rolled toward him and then on him, and suddenly we were skin to skin again, arms and legs intertwined. I was tucked against his chest like I belonged there. His skin was warm against my cheek, and I could hear the muted beating of his heart. It was comforting. Whatever demons he still battled because of his Type A, obsessive father, Jackson had come out on the other side, just like that heartbeat. Strong and steady.
“Thank you,” I whispered, for my reprieve and everything else.
“Mmhmm.” His hand slid down the curve of my back, caressing there, not sexual, almost soothing. “There’s a cost though.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“You have to tell me something about you. Something that no one else knows.”
“Like what?”
He huffed. “If I knew what it was, it wouldn’t be something no one else knows.”
Lawyers. I frowned. “Well, give me a guideline.”
His voice was serious and rife with meaning. “Something real.”
My body stiffened, almost without conscious thought, but those magical hands kept stroking down my back, calming me and giving me courage. Courage to put all the sarcasm and bullshit aside, and just be…Avery. It was a test, and I needed to pass. Because if I couldn’t give him something real now, when would I ever?
My mind briefly blanked, and then words started to spill out of my mouth. “When I was younger, I wanted to be a doctor.”
“That’s not exactly what I meant.”
I shook my head to stop him and he quieted. “I know ‘doctor’ is among the standard that children use when people ask them what they want to be, but I wanted to be a doctor since the time I was in third grade. And I went for it. I went through the medical magnet program at my high school and went to a college that had a reputation for excellence in the medical community. I double majored in Chemistry and Bio and I even interned with a doctor. Everything was going according to plan. My mom was so proud.” I smiled a little, my finger tracing patterns on his skin. “She bought me medical books and a stethoscope to practice with, and even on one of my birthdays, she got me a replica of the human skeleton.”
“Life size?”
“It’s in that closet,” I said and delighted in his shudder.
“So what went wrong? Did you grow out of it?”
“The day she had her heart attack, it was just the two of us. I’d come home on spring break, and we were in the den, talking about everything and anything like we usually did. And then…”
His hands stilled on my back. “You don’t have to—”
“I was on the phone with 911, and I never knew that ten minutes could be so long. I was doing CPR like I’d been taught, and I was so panicked, I felt like I might be doing it wrong.”
I took a deep, shuddery breath, and his hands started up again. And thank God for that. I felt as wound up as a clock. I felt like if he stopped stroking, I might go off like a Jack-in-the box.
“When they finally got there, lights and sirens blaring, it still felt like everything was surreal. Like I was underwater in this giant bubble. The parame
dics had to ask me three times if she was on any medication. But they were here. The medical professionals were here and they could…fix this. Please. Just fix this.”
“Baby,” he whispered in my hair. “I’m sorry.”
“It was a long time ago.” I wasn’t just talking to him. I had to loosen the grip on the past and remember that. “My father arrived as the ambulance was pulling off, and when I told him, he looked gray. Ashen. But he knew then. I didn’t piece it together until later, but as a cop, he knew that when the ambulance pulls off without lights and sirens, in no particular hurry, things are already over.”
“They didn’t work on her?”
“Not much. Like I said. It was pretty much over. But we sat with her for a long while. My dad put his head on her chest, just to hear that heart that was no longer beating and I found out what love really is.” I took a deep breath. “I saw those paramedics later. In the hallway. One of them was eating a sandwich and they were joking about getting off work because he was so fucking tired but he still had to pick up his girl’s kid. I passed by them, these guys who had been in my house, feeling my mother’s last breath from her body, and they didn’t even recognize me. I was just another call. Another face. Another report that was filled out so they could get the hell out of here.”
Even now, I marveled at the nature of the world and how we were all interconnected…but separate. Your world could be ending as someone was bitching about having to pick up his girlfriend’s kid from daycare. “And that’s the moment I knew. I didn’t want to be a doctor. Not because they didn’t do wonderful things or they weren’t wonderful people. But I realized that I never wanted to be able to compartmentalize human life. Not that way. Not even for my own sanity.”
I fell silent and he kissed my head through the tangle of my hair. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough. “Thank you for telling me that.”
“I wanted to,” I said simply. “No thank you required.”
“Still.”
I turned so I could see him, brushing the hair out of my face and propping my chin up on my folded hands. “That wasn’t free, Sparks. Your turn.
I could feel the rumble of amusement in his chest under my palms. “My turn? I feel like this is turning into some sort of reality show confessional. Last night, on Your Deepest Darkest Secrets, Bubbles and Mark decided—”
I smacked his arm. Even though it was funny. “I didn’t get to joke, so neither do you.”
He sighed, closing his eyes. “What do you want to know?”
That was easy. I used his words, because they were so perfect. “Something real.”
He was silent so long that I wondered if he’d fallen asleep. And then he spoke, his voice quiet. Introspective. “When I found out that my father had passed, my first reaction wasn’t grief. It was relief.” He paused, almost as if he was expecting me to judge him, but when none came, he went on. “I was relieved that I didn’t have to live up to his expectations anymore. Relieved that I didn’t have to see his disappointment anymore. He could no longer hurt me. Jules. My mother. Which was a ridiculous thought, because she was gone, too. But maybe it hurt less because she’d been gone for so long already.”
I almost hated to break the quiet, but I had to know. “What do you mean?”
“His affairs. They broke her, you know. Turned her into someone different. Someone cold and empty and distant. He always dated someone who looked like a younger version of her. The her she’d never be again. He brought one of them to dinner one night. Told us she was a client. But we all knew. We all were part of the charade.”
His eyes flew open, and they were dark with anger. “We sat there, and ate the dinner that my mother had prepared. We all sat there because when you’re a Sparks, you don’t make a scene. He was always that indiscreet, like he wanted her to know. Wanted it to hurt. Wanted her to know that just like his loser sons, she didn’t meet his expectations either.” He blew out a breath. “Sometimes I think I avoid relationships and long-term commitment because I’m afraid to turn into him. And sometimes I think…I already am.”
My brow furrowed. “You could never be like him,” I said fiercely.
“You barely know—”
“I know enough. And I know that Jules couldn’t stand that man. But he thinks the world of you. Doesn’t that mean something? Something more than the opinions of a dead man?”
He looked at me silently for a few moments, before his mouth quirked. “It does.”
“It should.”
His eyes crinkled, and my stomach dipped again. “You look like you’re ready to take him on for me.”
“Dream on, Sparks. I don’t fight no ghosts.”
“My mother wasn’t all bad, you know,” he said after a pause. “She was a very quiet, very beautiful woman who loved culture. She was always trying to share the arts with us. Julian wasn’t all that interested, and always made sure to be busy, but I always went along when she suggested it. She loved museums and baroque art.”
“And you?”
“I just loved her.” He half-smiled, and my heart hurt seeing the pain behind it. “Afterward, we’d always share a picnic. Usually water crackers and brie. Some grapes. We’d eat in the car with the windows down and talk about what we saw. Now every time I see a museum, I think about my childhood. Hearing her heels click in the cool, quiet halls. Speaking in hushed voices. Walking around, hand in hand with my classy, elegant mother, and being a part of something she loved so much.”
He glanced down at me. “Are you crying?”
“Shut up.” I swiped at my eyes. “And no. It’s called mist. Mist is not crying.”
He chuckled. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” He pulled me closer, into an embrace that I made no effort to get out of. Just that easy. Jackson always knew what he wanted and went for it. “We should get some sleep.”
That was something I could get onboard with. My face was trapped in the crook of his neck, and I didn’t try to get free. Instead, I breathed him in. Now I could smell him and that elusive Jackson scent all I wanted. “Goodnight, Jackson.”
“Night, AJ.”
I had a moment to appreciate how much better sleeping was when it was on Mount Jackson before serotonin took charge, and I drifted off.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I hated wrapping gifts.
Either I cut the paper too short and had to piece it together like a Franken-present, or I cut it too long and the sides came out bunched and puffy. Most of the time I wound up with something that resembled a third grader’s papier-mache project. Finally giving up on smoothing the bunched paper, I grabbed some curly ribbon and went to town on the decorations part.
I sat cross-legged on the floor of my bedroom, tongue poking out of my mouth in concentration as I tried to make the small box look halfway decent. I grumbled, listing the all the reasons wrapping gifts was a stupid tradition. I persevered only because I was pretty sure it was bad form to give someone a gift in the bag it came in.
The birthday celebration had gone pretty well, all things considered. We’d had a small party at home, a family dinner followed by cake and presents. The cake had been both German chocolate and slightly wobbly, courtesy of Art. When we’d complained about the rocky layers, he’d stuck a hand on his hip and exclaimed, “Do I look like Duff? I have a pastry chef at the restaurant, okay? Call Charm City Cakes if you want something perfect.” That had shut us up pretty quickly. Jesus, that man was touchy about his culinary creations.
It wasn’t that often that we celebrated birthdays. We lived too far apart for it to be logistically possible. Jules tried to make a big deal out of mine but for the most part, birthdays were just any other day for me. When I did happen to get a cake on the occasion, out on a dinner with well-meaning friends who’d whispered to the waiter that it was my birthday, I couldn’t decide which part made me more uncomfortable—everyone staring at me while singing Happy Birthday, or everyone staring at me while I cut the cake. I hated being the center of attention.
He’d met each set of eyes as we sang our goofy birthday rendition, smiling over the Leaning Tower of Cake. When it’d been my turn to face him over the flaming candles, there had been more emotions than happiness behind that smile. Maybe this wasn’t that easy for him…maybe he still had demons of his own to struggle with. The woman who should’ve been here holding the cake was long gone, as was any version of a future he’d make with her. And maybe this thing with Irene wasn’t the worst thing in the world. He was just trying to scrabble together a version of living a new life. Hell, we all were.
I’d smiled then, even though my vision had been a touch blurry. “What’d you wish for?”
He winked, keeping things light. “What do you think?”
I didn’t need to think—I already knew. Another birthday over a crooked fucking cake, with all the people we had left that we held dear. In short? This. A hundred times over…this.
I heard the door open and looked up to see Jackson coming in, clad in only navy pajama bottoms with Nike up the leg, running a towel over his tawny hair briskly. He looked so delicious I lost my train of thought, and briefly sent up a quick, thankful prayer for the thing that was friends-with-benefits. Whoever thought of the concept should be knighted. He finished toweling his hair and ran both hands through the spiky damp strands, and I reconsidered. Being knighted wouldn’t be enough. Whoever thought of friends with benefits should be fucking canonized.
Lane stuck her head in the partially open door. “Are you guys going to help decorate for the reception? They rented the clubhouse and since it’s only a few days away, the manager said we could start setting up now.”
“Sounds good,” I said, giving her a thumbs up.
She looked at my hatchet job on the wrapped gift and gave me a bright smile. “I kind of meant Jackson. We’ll find something else for you to do.”
