Must Be Crazy: (Melissa and Jackson) (A Jetty Beach Romance Book 2)

by Claire Kingsley

  A thought runs through my head, almost killing my buzz. Our flight home leaves tomorrow. We said a week, and we’ll go back to our own lives. I’ll take her home. No strings. No expectations. And that should be fine. That’s exactly what I wanted.

  But the thought of this ending opens a space in my chest—makes me feel like I can’t quite breathe.

  I down the rest of my drink in one swallow. Fuck that noise. We need to have some fun.

  “I have an idea,” I say.

  Melissa’s eyebrows lift. “Uh oh. Should I be scared?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Then tell me.”

  I grin. “I want to take you dancing.”

  Her eyes widen and her lips part. “You dance?”

  “Of course I dance.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  I laugh. “No, I’m serious.”

  “If you can really dance, I’m going to rip off your pants and suck your cock right this second.”

  “Fuck, I love your dirty mouth,” I say.

  Melissa giggles, almost spilling her drink in her lap. “Okay, captain. Take me dancing. But I have no idea what to wear.”

  I meet her eyes. “Will you let me buy you something sexy? I want to dress you up.”

  She purses her lips like she’s trying not to smile.

  “Come on,” I say, nudging her feet with mine. “Little black dress. Sexy heels.”

  “I don’t do heels,” she says.

  “They don’t have to be super high to be hot. Besides, I’m told comfortable heels exist. I bet we can find some Jimmy Choos that are amazing. Or maybe something in a kitten heel. They’re not so high.”

  “Kitten heels?” she asks. “How the fuck do you know what that means?”

  “I like shoes.”

  Her mouth drops open. “I’ve been walking around here barefoot this entire time, and now you tell me you like shoes?”

  “You have so many other things I like, I haven’t even thought about your shoes.”

  She narrows her eyes. “If I didn’t know better, I’d wonder if you’re straight.”

  I grin. “I like the way shoes look on women. There’s a difference. Let’s do it. This will be fun, I promise.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Fine.”

  I take her to Jimmy Choo and talk her into a pair of peep toe pumps in champagne glitter. They look positively delicious on her little feet, and she admits they are comfortable. I almost decide to say the hell with going out, and bring her back to the villa so I can fuck her with those shoes on. But I want to get out.

  I can’t deal with the inevitable quiet. I have to do something to distract myself.

  And I can fuck her with the shoes on later.

  I find her a dress at Neiman Marcus, a one-shoulder sheath dress that hugs her curves beautifully. It’s simple and classy—perfect for Melissa. I buy myself a new dress shirt, and an Armani jacket and slacks—Armani makes my ass look good.

  Because I’m on a roll, and she isn’t saying no, I take her to a salon. One stylist does her hair, while another does her makeup. She doesn’t look too uncomfortable, although we’re both a little drunk. I sit watching her, a stupid grin plastered to my face, while a guy with bleached-blond hair gives me a trim.

  We go back to the villa to change. I finish first, so I lean against the front door, flipping through things on my phone.

  Melissa comes out and I almost drop my phone. She is … unbelievable. There is no other word. That dress, those shoes, her hair blown out, just enough makeup to enhance her eyes and lips. She rolls her eyes and slides her hands along the dress, as if to smooth it out.

  “This is what I’m talking about,” I say. “Do you have any idea how gorgeous you are?”

  “No.”

  “That is a damn fucking shame,” I say. I take a few pictures of her with my phone.

  “Bragging to your followers?” she asks.

  “Nope,” I say, thumbing through the pictures. “These are only for me.”

  The driver takes us north to Addison, a restaurant I’ve been to once before. From there, it’s half an hour’s drive to the Gaslamp Quarter where I want to take Melissa later, but it’s early enough in the evening that we have time for a leisurely dinner. Addison doesn’t disappoint. I order the chef’s tasting menu and let the staff choose the wine. The French-inspired cuisine is delicious, and the staff discreet and professional. Melissa claims it’s the best meal she’s ever eaten.

  We linger at Addison, sipping wine, until well after the sun goes down. Eventually, we go back to the car and head to the Gaslamp Quarter. I kiss her neck and nibble on her fingers as we drive.

  The car pulls to a stop and the driver opens the door. I get out of the car, adjust my jacket and hold out a hand for Melissa. Her sexy little shoes come first, followed by those luscious legs. She stands and gives me a little smile. I put a hand on the small of her back and lead her toward the bouncer at the front of the club.

  “There’s a line,” Melissa says, gesturing toward the mass of people stretched down the side of the street. Parq always has a line.

  One corner of my mouth turns up. “I don’t do lines.”

  I approach the bouncer, a muscular man with a thick beard and tattoos down his arms, and ignore the scowls of a few girls in gaudy makeup at the front of the line.

  “Sir?” the bouncer asks.

  I put one hand in my pocket and keep the other on Melissa’s back. “Jackson Bennett.”

  The bouncer blinks, his face showing recognition, and unhooks the rope to let us in. “Have a nice evening, Mr. Bennett.”

  I smile at the girls in line as I walk by, and pause long enough to let someone behind them take my picture.

  “How do you do that?” Melissa asks.

  “Do what?”

  “That. Normal people don’t just walk up to a bouncer and give their name. People treat you like royalty.”

  “They treat me like I have money,” I say. “Bouncers want people inside that the people outside will talk about.”

  “I guess that means they want you,” she says.

  “Exactly,” I say. “They always want me.”

  We walk in through the outer lobby and a man in a gray suit appears. “Mr. Bennett, thank you for coming to Parq. We have the owner’s booth ready for you. Are you expecting any more personal guests?”

  “No, just us tonight,” I say.

  “Perfect, this way.”

  Maybe it’s the day’s constant stream of bourbon and wine, or maybe Melissa is getting used to being with me, but she moves with confidence, her hand tucked in the crook of my arm.

  Music pulses, the noise level rising as we make our way up a ramp to the main club. The light show is in full swing, colored beams racing around the room. Women in white bikinis dance on elevated platforms, and guys in seven-foot robot costumes walk the floor.

  Our host brings us to our booth. The bottle service girl isn’t far behind, dressed in a black bodysuit with a plunging neckline that barely covers her enormous implants. I order our drinks and watch as a train of girls with sparklers prances by. People fill the dance floor and curious onlookers wander near our booth, trying to get a look at us. The host stands at the entrance and keeps the gawkers back.

  I do the club a favor and snap a picture of Melissa, her face turned away from me, and tweet where we are—Sassy Friday night at Parq San Diego—and add a few hashtags. I scroll through some of the replies on my earlier tweets. Most are pretty standard. People are dying to know about Melissa—who she is, where we are. Tonight they’ll want to know what she’s wearing. I take a picture of her shoes, showing off the sexy curve of her legs. The dress might have to come off, but the Jimmy Choos will stay on.

  Some asshole replied to another tweet with a comment about fucking Sassy Girl when I’m done with her. I block him. The Internet is full of jackasses. They aren’t worth my time.

  The bottle service girl pours shots and I hand one to Melissa. My buzz is starting to
wear off and I want to get another drink down before my mind clears too much.

  “What should we drink to?” I ask.

  “To a crazy end to a crazy week,” she says.

  I fucking hate that toast. I look away for a moment, trying to ignore the pain that stabs through my chest. I lift my glass. “Let’s just drink to crazy.”

  “To crazy,” she says and downs her shot.

  I swallow mine and glance at the bottle, wondering if I should have another. But it isn’t even midnight, and I never drink enough in public to make an ass of myself. I lounge back against the cushioned seat, my arm behind Melissa.

  A small knot of women lingers near the booth, giggling and pointing at me. Our host keeps them back, but one leans over the barrier.

  “Jackson! Jackson Bennett! Let us party with you!”

  “Please,” another one calls. She runs a finger down her neck to her cleavage, her fake boobs barely contained by her neon orange top.

  Our host meets my eyes and I give him a small shake of my head.

  “Move along, ladies,” he says, holding up a hand to push them back.

  Melissa laughs and drapes her legs across my lap, her feet crossed at the ankles. I run my finger along her skin.

  “You sure you don’t want more company?” she says. “Those girls were pretty hot.”

  I know she’s teasing me. She has that wicked look in her eyes. “I just want you.”

  And fuck, it’s true. Those girls might not have made the cut, but when have I ever sat in a club with just one woman? Even when I’m dating someone, there are always others hanging around.

  Maybe I do need another drink.

  Melissa pulls her legs from my lap. “You brought me here to dance, right?”

  “That I did.”

  I stand and take off my jacket, laying it across the seat. I hold out a hand for Melissa and help her up. Our booth is near the dance floor, so I lead her out beneath the flashing lights. The music blares, and well-dressed people dance around us.

  My roommate at prep school taught me the secret to dancing with a woman. It isn’t about the moves or even having great rhythm; it’s all about making her look good.

  Not that Melissa needs any help from me. There isn’t a woman in the club as stunning as she is.

  I put my hands on her hips and draw her in close, moving to the rhythm of the music. Her body moves with mine, and I run my hands up her back. She turns and tosses her hair over her shoulder, pressing her ass into my groin.

  The bass reverberates through me, and my head is light. I let my thoughts go, focusing on the music, and Melissa’s body moving with mine.

  Parq isn’t exclusive enough to avoid the occasional wannabe paparazzi, and I notice a guy snapping pictures of us from across the floor. I ignore him. It might mean some dumbass feature that makes the rounds on the internet for a few days, but fuck it. That shit is hard for a man like me to avoid. People are voyeurs. They like to think they’re getting a peek into my world, especially when the pictures make them feel like they’re looking in my windows without me knowing.

  One song blends seamlessly into another. The DJ knows his shit. People dance, and laugh, and cheer around us. Someone puts a hand on my arm, but she isn’t Melissa, so I shrug her off and pivot away. We go to our booth, take more shots, and head back to the dance floor. Melissa laughs, and spins, and sings along to the lyrics. I keep my hands all over her, grabbing her ass, her hips, running my fingers through her hair. Nothing exists but the steady beat of the music and this woman who fills all of me.

  I have no idea what time it is, and Melissa’s body rubbing against me is driving me insane. Suddenly I have to get her out of this club. I need to take her back to the villa and fuck her until neither of us can breathe.

  I dig my fingers into her ass and press my hard cock against her. “I need to get out of here. Now.”

  “Me, too.”

  We stagger out of the club and climb into the limo. I don’t even wait until we start moving. I hike up her dress and push her panties to the side, thrusting my cock in her as soon as I have my pants undone. I’m wild with need for her. I pound her until we both come in a rush. But I’m not finished. We stumble into the villa and don’t make it past the entryway. I tear off my clothes and grab her, lifting her up with my hands on her ass. Her legs wrap around my waist and I hold her up against the wall. I fuck her madly, desperately. We stop before finishing. I’m too drunk to hold her up. I follow her down the hall to one of the bedrooms and bend her over the side of the bed. She calls my name, shouting her ecstasy while I thrust my cock in her—hard. An ache has lodged itself in my chest and I’m frantic to get rid of it.

  I pull out and turn her over, pushing her up onto the bed with rough hands. I want to see her face when I come. I grab her ass and kiss her mouth. My cock pulses and I stiffen, the orgasm tearing through me. It seems to last forever, my dick throbbing as I empty myself into her.

  I fall onto the bed, breathing hard. My head swims and my body is spent. The room seems to tilt and I close my eyes, laying my arm across my head. Melissa shifts next to me, but I have nothing left. I relax and fall into a numb sleep.

  My eyes feel like they’re lined with sandpaper.

  I open them slowly, waiting for the stabbing pain that the light will cause. I cringe, trying not to whimper. Yep, that hurts. My stomach is hollow and raw, and my mouth tastes sour. I need water. Lots of water. And ibuprofen. Lots of that, too.

  Jackson is sprawled out on the bed, face down, his back moving slowly with his breathing. I roll off the bed, careful not to wake him. After the night we had, I’m sure he needs more time to sleep it off.

  It seems odd that I have clothes on, although my dress is hiked up around my waist. My thong is wedged uncomfortably—even for a thong—in my ass crack. I’m pretty sure Jackson and I fucked each other until we passed out after getting back from the club. It must have been intense, because I’m sore between the legs.

  I head for the bathroom and stop. It isn’t there. I glance around the room. We aren’t in the master, where we’ve slept all week. We must have stumbled into this bedroom last night. I put a hand to my aching head and walk to the other side of the room, shutting the bathroom door.

  My hair is a disaster. “Sex hair” doesn’t even begin to describe the mess atop my head. I don’t have any of my things in this bathroom, so I smooth it down with my hands. I use the toilet and clean myself up as best I can with a wet washcloth.

  What a night. I haven’t partied that hard in years.

  I tried to play hard-to-get when Jackson suggested buying more clothes, but the truth is, it sounded fun. And it was. I’ve never owned a sexier pair of shoes, and the dress made me feel amazing. Jackson’s reaction didn’t hurt, either.

  I still can’t fathom why he looks at me the way he does. No matter how good I feel all dressed up, I’m still just … me. A small town teacher with a fisherman for a daddy. Jackson has a parade of women: rich women, models, women who live the way he does. I feel like I’ve been looking in on his world from the outside, skirting along the edges with his hand on my back, guiding me along. But I can’t come inside. Not really.

  It was a rush to walk right up to the bouncer and get into the club. If looks could kill, those girls in line would have murdered me with their eyes, but it only made me laugh. People watch Jackson wherever we go, and nowhere was it more intense than at Parq.

  He was completely in his element. Club staff at his beck and call, ready to do anything to make him happy. Women throwing themselves at him, oblivious to the fact that he was there with someone. Drinks flowing, music booming. He seemed a little distant, but we were pretty drunk.

  And his claim that he could dance wasn’t bullshit. He’s almost as good on the dance floor as he is in bed—and that’s saying something.

  I rinse out my mouth with water and dry off my hands. Jackson is still asleep, so I let him be. I head upstairs to our room, grabbing a bottled water from the kitche
n along the way. If Nathan or any of the staff are around, they’re discreet enough to stay out of sight. I down some water, grab clean clothes, and head for the shower.

  ***

  Jackson barely speaks over breakfast. He looks at his phone, swiping his thumb over the screen. I drink my coffee, shifting uncomfortably in my seat. He hasn’t said anything about leaving, but I notice one of the staff bringing our bags down and setting them by the front door. It feels odd that someone packed my things.

  But none of it is really mine anyway.

  Jackson avoids meeting my eyes, but still puts a gentle hand on my back as he leads me to the limo. I get in, and watch out the windows as we drive away. The clouds have parted and the sun is out; the water is sparkling. In no more than a minute, we leave the villa behind, the car gliding up the road toward the freeway.

  Dread runs through me. I feel like I should say something, at least make small talk, but I can’t think of anything to say. Jackson drinks a glass of whiskey in the limo and offers one to me. I turn him down. After last night, even the thought of alcohol makes me queasy.

  He doesn’t say much while we wait at the airport, just sips another drink in the executive lounge. Nor while we sit in our wide, first-class seats. He has a couple more whiskeys on the three-hour flight, and I start to wonder how he’s going to drive me home after we land.

  My breath catches in my throat when I realize—he won’t drive me home. We’ll land in Seattle and he’ll already have a car waiting to take me the three hours to Jetty Beach. This will be it. The end to our week.

  And I’ll probably never see him again.

  I bite the inside of my cheek and stare out the window. I don’t want to cry in front of him. I can sob my eyes out on the drive home, alone in some fucking limo—even though there’s no reason for me to be upset. This is what I agreed to. One week, no strings. Wasn’t I the one to say that first? No expectations, no worries about the future.