by S. E. Harmon
“Goodnight, Lane,” I growled.
“Goodnight, AJ,” she sing songed. “I know you guys have…things to do, so I’ll get going.”
She made kissy-face noises before closing the door, and I scowled at Jackson, who seemed to find us all too amusing. “Well, that answers that question. They know what we’re doing in here.”
He shrugged, giving me a crooked smile. “So?”
“So I could go without my entire family knowing about my sex life. Seeing how I’m not a Kardashian.”
“I’m pretty sure we’re not the only people in this house having—”
“Oh God!” I cut him off just in time to not hear it, but not in time to stop the mental images. “If you have a rewind button for life in general, now would be a good time to use it.”
He grinned. “Anyway, is that the watch I helped you find?”
I glanced back down at Franken-present. “Yeah. Although I think the term ‘helped me find’ is a bit generous.”
“No, giving up my entire afternoon to scour every shop in a fifteen-mile radius is generous.” He gave me a sour look as he pulled out his iPad from the nightstand and got into bed. “I missed paddle boarding with Art, you know.”
I shrugged. Perhaps someone, who shall remain nameless, had dragged him through the shops on the beach several times, changing her mind about what to get her father. Frankly, Jackson should have no complaints—he’d been far too busy devouring a blueberry-flavored snow cone to be of much help. Well, after I’d turned down his suggestion of shades, a tie pen, cuff links, and a watch fob, he’d been absolutely no help.
“Besides,” he continued, “I thought you guys gave your dad all his gifts.”
“We did. Only we like to outdo each other. Every year, we sneak him gifts after, trying to give him something to try to top the others.” This year had been no different. Art probably thought I didn’t know about the year-long beer subscription he’d purchased, but he had another thing coming. I scowled, taping up a particularly bunched-up piece of wrapping paper. “He never remembers who gave him what. I don’t know why we bother.”
“You guys really care about making him happy,” Jackson said, swiping his finger across his iPad screen. I couldn’t see it, but I knew he was checking work emails. “I think it’s cute.”
“It’s less cute when you spent extra time and money having something engraved.”
After opening the specially wrapped, custom ordered, engraved pen I’d given my father, he’d said, “Thanks, guys.” It had almost taken herculean effort not to be a selfish cur and demand credit.
Jackson sent me a distracted smile. “Well, I think your dad is pretty lucky to have you guys.”
We were the lucky ones. I knew my mother’s death had made me a little paranoid about change, but things could change so damn quickly. One night you’re saying goodnight, and the next day you’re saying goodbye. I tried not to think about how long we had left, and just enjoy it. My father being an overall pain-in-the-keister really helped curb my nostalgia.
“So.” Jackson’s voice startled me from my reverie. “You planning to come to bed any time soon?”
“Depends on what you’re going to do to me there.” I tried not to smile, sticking a gift label on the box. “It’s got to be worthwhile.”
“I don’t recall you having any complaints.”
I could give credit where credit was due. “I don’t. You could certainly teach my exes a thing or two.”
I bit my lip and stood, pretending not to see his interested expression. Cursing my wayward mouth, I took a quick moment to shake out the kinks in my stiff legs, and then carried the wrapped gift over to the dresser. There was really no need to bring Adam up, and definitely no need to rehash our sex life. Or lack thereof. Hell, back then, I’d thought our sex life was perfectly okay. A few times with Jackson made me realize it’d been mediocre at best. I sighed with relief, glad I hadn’t signed on for a lifetime of mediocre sex.
Apparently Jackson wasn’t one to miss an open window of opportunity. I could see him putting his iPad away in the nightstand drawer, and I knew what was coming. “Are you ever going to tell me what happened between the two of you?” he asked.
“We just didn’t work out.” I shrugged helplessly as I got in on my side of the bed. I fluffed up the covers way more than necessary, just to keep my hands busy. “What else is there to say?”
He was quiet then, and I felt guilty putting him off with generic answers. He deserved more than that. I sighed. “He cheated on me. Found someone else.”
“Is that why you’re so allergic to commitment?”
I scowled. And this is what you get for sharing. “Coming from you? That’s rich.”
“I know what my issues are.” He gave me an arch look. “We’re talking about you now.”
“I’m not allergic to commitment. When I find the right person, I’ll know.”
In true Jackson form, he couldn’t let it be. “And you’ll do what?”
It was a good question. I still thought love was a bit of a suck fest. I wasn’t interested on putting my heart on the line ever again. I wasn’t about to say any of that, though. “If I learn how to predict the future, I’m probably going to use it on lotto numbers,” I said mildly.
“Fuck, Avery.” Jackson ran his hands through his hair, setting it on end, thoroughly exasperated with me. “I’m starting to think the only time you give me a real fucking answer is after we’ve had sex.”
I had no denials at the ready, mostly because he was one hundred percent correct. When we were together like that, giving him anything but the God’s honest truth was a task almost Sisyphean in nature. It was a part of me that I hated to expose, because I didn’t want to be hurt again.
“Maybe you’re right,” I admitted.
“I know I’m right.” And suddenly, he reached over, lifting me as if I weighed nothing. He ignored my flailing and protesting, and lowered me onto his lap. Scrabbling for purchase, I finally steadied my hands on his shoulders. His hands settled at my waist as my hair fell forward, curtaining us both.
“What are you doing?” I demanded, needlessly. I already felt his erection pressing into me, hard and ready. Obviously, my cartoon pajamas were a turn-on for him.
“I’m getting my answers.”
He was certainly welcome to try. I sent him a look of faux-disappointment. “I can’t believe you find me sexy in SpongeBob. There ought to be a law.”
“I find you sexy in anything.” He grinned. “Even SpongeBob.”
“You’re depraved.”
“You love it.”
I loved it better when he forgot about getting his damned answers and fucked me like he was getting paid to do so. But after, with our hair mussed, our bodies sweaty, and the bedcovers so messed up that we had to get out of bed and remake it, I had to face facts.
This casual sex thing had gone far enough. I was not capable of having a casual fling with Jackson. I’d woken up the night after we had sex to an empty, cold bed. Cool pillows and wrinkled sheets on his side greeted my seeking hands, and it had the appropriate sobering effect as I’d rubbed a hand over my wild tangle of hair, wondering what the hell I’d done? I thought about all the things I’d told him…things that only seemed shareable there in the quiet and the dark and I’d pulled the covers over my head.
I’d lain there under the sheets, quietly hyperventilating. Clearly, I lived here now. Here under the sheets. Alone. With my shame.
I’d had to acknowledge then that I clearly liked him a lot more than I’d previously admitted. And that liking had only increased with the things he’d told me and trusted me with. He wasn’t just some privileged, arrogant, gorgeous guy who’d always had the world by the cajones. He’d had a privileged upbringing, yes. But with that had come a heavy cost. He was damaged in his own way, and wasn’t afraid to be vulnerable with me…which was something that was really working for me.
As the panic started to set in, the door had opened. I’d peere
d over the covers to find Jackson with a tray of breakfast items. Orange juice. Fruit. The promised waffles. I’d laughed at his wriggling eyebrows and his leering, and sat up, accepting the tray with the sheet tucked under my arms. We’d eaten then, and used the leftover syrup to…well, do things. And then I’d gotten on top of him and rode him hard, hips flexing, hands tweaking my own hardened nipples as I really got into it.
We’d had to go slow and be quiet, in deference to the waking household, and it had only increased the intimacy between us. He’d looked up at me with this expression…like I was the only thing he’d ever wanted, and it made my insides go soft and gooey, melting like M&Ms in a kid’s heated palm. Looking into those hazel eyes as he came apart quietly under me was something I wasn’t ever going to forget. Or repeat.
I should’ve known then. I already cared too much. Caring was two steps away from losing my heart again, and I wasn’t going to do that.
I snapped the sheet hard enough to snatch it out of Jackson’s hand on the other side and he sighed exasperatedly. “Problems?” I asked, a hand on my hip.
“It doesn’t have to be that tight,” he said, grabbing for the end again.
“You’re trying to put on the wrong end.”
“I have two degrees, Avery,” he growled. “I think I can manage to make a bed.”
“Obviously neither of those degrees was from Linens & Things.”
His frustration was understandable. We’d been trying to make the bed like Irene had, but neither of us was very good at it. As we went back to fighting a fucking fitted sheet in our underwear, I continued my inner monologue. As I was saying, sexual flirtation? Over. We’d indulged our baser natures, and now it was time to be mature.
I was mature. My driver’s license said so. So did the young clerk at my local ABC liquor store who kept calling me “ma’am.” The red-haired, freckle-faced youth made me wonder whether I should purchase the cotton candy-flavored vodka or hang on to it, just so I’d have something to bash him over the head with if he fucking “ma’am”-ed me one more time.
I nodded, sagely. Yes. I was wise, I was old, and I had a sudden hankering for flavored liquor. To ensure I didn’t do something stupid like fall in love, Jackson and I would not have sex with one another again. And that was that.
*
There was no denying it—the man had obviously taken some sort of class in mind control. I lay in the mess of sheets, watching the palm-frond shaped fan blades rotating lazily, cooling my heated skin.
“I think it’s getting better,” he said, his voice a husky rasp. “Is that even possible?”
“It can’t get too much better,” I murmured. “I don’t relish the thought of dying young.”
His hand slid down the side of my neck, his thumb caressing my jaw, stroking my skin. His hand on my neck was warm and soft, and after orgasm-a-palooza, it was easy to grow sleepy. “Admit it,” he said, his voice smug, “You like it when my hands are on you.”
He was wrong. I didn’t “like” it when he touched me. I loved it. Needed it. Craved it like a heroin addict’s first sweet fucking hit. “Go to sleep,” I finally said. It wasn’t long before he did, blond head nestled close to mine. I turned to say goodnight, but his fluttering eyelids told me he was already somewhere off in dreamland. And hoping I’d maybe find a cure for falling for Jackson somewhere in my dreams, I closed my eyes and joined him.
CHAPTER TWENTY
It was an undeniable fact that all wedding receptions could be enhanced by the attendance of one very special guest—table of one, Mr. Jack Daniels. Sometimes Mr. Daniels was accompanied by Mr. Jose Cuervo, but tonight he came alone. I was certainly enjoying his company. I took another glass from a passing waiter with a smile, and made my way through the crush, heading for the balcony.
I had no idea who most of the guests were—most likely friends and family of Irene. I made room for a couple doing a strange two-person version of the cha-cha slide, and had to grin at their antics. The groom’s family attendance was a little sparser, but that had more to do with my father’s lackadaisical way of inviting people than anything else. As far as I knew, he’d just told my aunt and uncle and let the rumor spread.
I took a deep breath of night air as soon as the balcony doors closed quietly behind me. The day hadn’t been nearly as bad as I’d thought it would be, but it was getting late and I was about ready to call it a night. When I wore evening wear, I had an expiration date—usually midnight. My friends liked to call me a party pooper; I preferred to think of it as my Cinderella complex.
Sure enough, my shoes were starting to pinch, and my dress was starting to cut into areas that usually only saw elastic. Even my perfect ballerina bun that had been so elegant at the start of the day was sagging, and had turned into late-night study session bun—the kind you stuck pencils in and lost.
The cool breeze wafted over my overheated skin gently, and I sighed. I sipped a little more Jack from my glass, gratified by the liquid fortification. There was truly no better place than weddings to get melancholy about your relationships…or lack thereof. It could have been watching my father and Irene, their eyes wet with tears as they solidified their union. Or Lane and Rick, each dancing with one of their girls, smiling at one another over their daughters’ heads. Whatever the reason, I was feeling every one of my years. I felt very…I didn’t know. I huffed out a frustrated breath. I didn’t know what exactly was ailing me.
God knew I wasn’t the traditional sort, and frankly, I couldn’t really see myself in a traditional marriage with the two-point-five kids and the picket fence. I enjoyed my life, and the freedom that came with it. I’d had a certain set of goals I wanted to achieve, and I’d achieved them…that list had been even more important after my mother’s death. I knew that if she’d had the opportunity to keep living, keep going, keep doing, she’d have been ecstatic. So how could I sit around moping, wasting what I had left?
So I’d gone out and achieved everything I’d set out to do. Granted, my goals weren’t crazy ones—I didn’t want an Oscar or millions of dollars. I’d just wanted to finish college like she’d never had the chance to do. Find a career that made me happy. Own my own home. And I’d done all that. But standing in that reception hall, watching my family interact with their families…it sent a frisson of something through me. If I had to dissect that feeling…well, it felt a little like loneliness.
I didn’t want what they had…I wanted something of my own.
I tried to shrug off whatever melancholy vibes were trying to ruin my mood, and finished off my glass. I set it on the railing and began swaying a little to the strains of music filtering through the balcony doors. I didn’t know the song, but it sounded like Adele, all slow and soulful and beautiful. I did a little spin, seriously overestimating my soberness. I nearly catapulted over the railing, but suddenly found myself enfolded in strong arms.
Jackson. Almost on autopilot, I tried to get out of his hold, but it was like pushing at granite—I clearly wasn’t going anywhere until he wanted me to. His eyes roved my face for a moment and I flushed. My strange mood made it very hard to look at him full on. Maybe because I was starting to be afraid that he was the something I wanted.
He finally let me go, his mouth tilted up in a half-smile. “Dance with me?”
I blinked. “Out here?”
“Why not?” He held out his hand with an upraised eyebrow, and I had to grin at his rakish air. He sighed. “Every fiber in my being is telling me not to ask what’s so funny.”
“You look very 007-ish in that suit.” I waved my hands to encapsulate his entire appearance—he wore finely tailored cream suit and pin-striped vest very well. I peered at his perfectly styled hair for a moment. “Did you use my mousse?”
“Clearly, I should’ve let you fall into the bushes.”
“I’d like to note that you clearly aren’t denying it.”
He rolled his eyes and held out his hand again. From the look on his face and the gimlet look in his eye, I
thought it prudent to accept.
I leaned into Jackson as we moved. Damn that Adele. Her smoky, knowing voice worked its way around us both as she sang about being someone’s one and only. I felt like I was floating in his capable arms. I didn’t know when I’d buried my face in his shoulder, or when he’d pulled me in so close that his hands rested lightly on the small of my back. There on the balcony, only lit by the light filtering through the glass doors, it seemed like we were in our own hyacinth-scented world.
“You’re not a half-bad dancer,” I said, my fingers playing with the hair flopping over his collar. I raised my eyebrows meaningfully. “All things considered.”
He snorted. “You’re the one pressing every inch of your body against me. I’d have to be half-dead not to respond.” Of course Jackson had to add one last tidbit guaranteed to drive me crazy. “Besides, it’s you. This is pretty much my normal state when I’m within five feet of you.”
I inhaled softly, trying to seem like I wasn’t sniffing him when I really was. It was just that he always smelled so good, like something citrusy and woodsy. I tried not to think about the fact that our time together was coming to an end—two more nights before we had to go back. Two more nights before it was back to the real world. I knew it would be smarter, easier, to take a few steps back. So of course, I did nothing of the sort. My hands began traversing a journey down his body that was clearly more than dancing.
“What’re you doing?” he asked with that sexy little half-smile.
“You said the next time we had sex, I had to ask you nicely,” I said, referring to the way he’d teased me after our breakfast romp. I kissed him on the jaw. It was starting to grow rough with stubble already, even though I’d seen him shave earlier that day. The thought of that stubble abrading my skin sent a shiver done my spine. “I’m asking nicely.”
His head went side to side slowly in a “no” motion. “I believe I said beg. The word was beg, AJ. And I think my price has changed.”
