Nothing.
“I drank too much,” I pronounced. I slanted my eyes down at Bianca, hoping she’d fill in the blanks.
She knew I was bluffing but took pity on me. “You told me about Linc and Cricket,” she said gently. “And about what happened after. Going to New Orleans. Christian. Cody. Everything.”
Coldness sliced through me, freezing as an arctic wind. Then, worse, suspicion. Did she sleep with me because she felt sorry for me?
Examining my face, Bianca pounded her little fists on my chest. “If you ever look at me like that again,” she said, seething, “you won’t be a nice, tasty filet anymore, Jackson Boudreaux, you’ll be ground beef!”
Her threat made me feel oddly relieved. “I love it when you threaten me with bodily harm,” I said, and kissed her again.
She sighed contentedly against my lips. I was enamored by how quickly she could get over anger. It usually took me days.
She said, “Well, someone’s got to keep you in line. Might as well be your wife.”
It was a throwaway line, but it speared me right through the heart. It took a moment for my blood to start circulating again. “Wife,” I repeated solemnly, gazing into her eyes.
She wrinkled her nose. “Lord, you make it sound like someone just told you Christmas was canceled.”
I cupped her jaw in my hand. “No. It’s like someone just told me I won the lottery.”
“Do billionaires play the lottery?”
“They would if they knew you were the prize.”
She squirmed a little, pleased but acting like she wasn’t, and resumed toying with my chest hair like it was her new pet. I stroked her face, dazzled by all the little dancing hearts in my eyes.
“I need a shower,” she pronounced, then looked at me from under her lashes.
“God, those filthy eyes. You could probably be arrested for that look. Pervert.”
She said casually, “Well, since we’re doing a sex weekend before we go back to real life, I might as well make the most of it, right?”
Inside my head was the sound a freight train makes when it slams on its brakes, then topples off the tracks, spilling its load of munitions and poison gas, which promptly explode in an enormous orange ball of flame, scorching the earth and destroying all life in a fifty-mile radius.
Clearly for Bianca, this wasn’t the start of something deeper between us. This was the itch that needed to be scratched before it could be forgotten. This was the annoying, tickling pressure that had built to the point where it could only be relieved with a reflexive action, like a sneeze.
Bianca was going to sneeze me out of her system. She’d told me flat out, “it would be a good idea if we got it out of our systems.”
And I’d gone and fallen in love with her. What a fool.
“Right,” I said, shuttering my eyes.
She examined my expression for a moment. “What’s that face you’re making? I don’t recognize that face.”
This is what heartbreak looks like. “Nothing,” I said flatly. “I’m fine.”
She pushed me in the chest so hard I flopped onto my back. My eyes flew open in surprise. I grunted as she threw herself on top of me.
“No!” she shouted. “No, you don’t get to do that after you were just inside me not even five minutes ago! You do not get to be all weird and withdrawn and noncommunicative, do you hear me? Talk!”
She jabbed me in the chest with her finger. Glaring down at me with her dark hair wild all around her face and her eyes blazing black fury, she was a little bit terrifying.
But I was madly in love with her, so I had to tell her the truth. “I told you once wouldn’t be enough,” I said gruffly. It sounded like an accusation.
“So? And?”
It was a challenge, which pissed me off.
“So,” I snapped, “you fucking seduced me!” Her eyes flared in outrage, but I was only getting started. “And now you’re telling me this weekend is all I’m getting! And I already told you I didn’t want to fuck this up! So now it’s too late because it is fucked up because I won’t be able to have you just once and I’m going to go fucking insane trying to keep my hands off you now, because to you this was only sex but to me it was a lot more, and you told me I was beautiful!”
I roared it into her face with so much force her hair fluttered back from her cheeks. I stared at her, panting, enraged, all the tendons standing out in my neck.
Then her eyes softened and she smiled. “Oh, Jax,” she said tenderly. “We’re going to have to do something about that temper.”
She took my face in her hands and kissed me.
I was completely confused.
“Kiss me back!” she demanded when I remained frozen beneath her.
I sputtered, “Are you having some sort of psychotic break I should be aware of?”
She sighed and tucked her face into the space between my neck and shoulder, snuggling closer to my body. “You conveniently forgot about the ‘ten or twenty times’ part of our conversation, Beastie.”
When I remained stiff and unresponsive, she sighed again. “And the part where I asked if that would all be in one day and you said you’d need a lot more time than that?”
When I still didn’t say anything, she tapped me impatiently on my sternum. I turned my head and looked at her. She was smiling up at me indulgently, like I was a giant, fussing baby.
“I’ll be very clear, since you seem to be having trouble processing what I’m trying to say.” She cleared her throat, becoming businesslike. “Mr. Boudreaux. When I said we were having a sex weekend, I didn’t mean we were only having a sex weekend.”
All the breath left my body in an audible rush. I put my hand over my eyes to hide my relief.
More gently, she said, “I’m not putting any rules on this. When I said sex didn’t have to change anything, that was the truth. I hope it doesn’t make things awkward when we get home if—if—one of us decides it’s better to remain friends. Seeing as how this is a business deal and all.”
I couldn’t help myself. I growled.
“I know,” she whispered. “It’s an odd situation. For us both, obviously. But if it even has a chance to work out, we have to promise to be completely honest with each other.” There was a long pause. “And I was being honest when I said I thought you were beautiful. So. There’s that.”
After I corralled my stampeding emotions, I griped, “You’re not so bad yourself.”
She burst out laughing. “Such flowery, romantic words! Oh, I’m overcome!”
I rolled her onto her back, pinned her down, and kissed her all over her face as she laughed and laughed and my heart expanded like a balloon.
The problem with balloons is that at some point they have to either deflate or burst.
After I brushed my teeth and changed into clean clothes, I left Bianca dozing in my bed and went downstairs to find my parents.
They were eating breakfast in the solar off the kitchen, a large, sunny room with a glass ceiling to let in the light, the noisy chatter of my mother’s caged songbirds coloring in the air. I stood outside the doorway for a moment, watching them, a band of steel tightening around my chest.
What had Bianca told them? And would it change anything?
My father looked up and saw me standing there before my mother did. His face transformed. “Jackson,” he said, smiling. “Good morning.”
My mother looked up, slowly set her fork down onto her plate, and blinked, gazing at me like she’d never seen me before.
All in all, it was unsettling.
I walked stiffly to the table. My father stood. I cleared my throat, awkward words of greeting on my tongue, but he canceled that plan when he opened his arms and grabbed me in a bear hug, squeezing tighter than a man in his seventies should be capable of.
“Son,” he said, his voice choked. “Oh, son.” He gave me a good, hard shake. “It’s so good to have you home.”
Wide-eyed, I looked over his shoulder at my mother. She
was dabbing at her eyes with her napkin.
My father released me and clapped me so hard on the back I almost pitched forward. I caught myself in time and took refuge in a chair, where I sat looking between the two of them with trepidation. My mother reached over and grasped my hand. A miracle.
A servant deposited a glass of orange juice on the table in front of me. “Breakfast, sir?”
I waved my hand, and the servant melted away. I couldn’t deal with food right now, but the orange juice was too great a temptation, so I chugged it.
“We owe you an apology,” said my father, instantly prompting me to choke.
He had to pound me on the back several times before I was able to catch my breath, and even then I wasn’t able to speak, only stare at him in watery-eyed, gasping disbelief.
“Oh, now don’t gimme that face,” he said, snapping his napkin over his lap. “You’re not innocent in all of this, either! You never even told us we had a grandson!”
The sound that came out of me wasn’t technically a word, but my father snorted like I’d disagreed with him.
“Yes, Bianca told me you adopted Christian’s son, and I’m damned pissed off that you’d keep that from us! You know how much your mother wants grandbabies! And you could’ve told me what really happened with Cricket—it would’ve saved us years of grief!”
He looked at me, stricken. “Not that it was anything like what you probably went through, of course. I didn’t mean that. Only . . . well, shit, Jackson. You never gave your mother and me a chance to be there for you. You just disappeared, and when Rayford found you, he wouldn’t tell us anything, either, and we never saw either one of you again! It was like the two of you went into the witness protection program!”
It took a long time for me to recover from that. “But . . .” I looked at my mother. “I gave you a stroke.”
She sighed like she was disappointed she’d given birth to such an idiot.
Exasperated, my father trumpeted, “You can’t take credit for that, boy! Your mother’s been on a blood thinner for twenty years because she’d had a minor stroke before you were born and the doctors were tryin’ to prevent another one! Sticky blood runs in her side of the family! Jesus H. Christ on a crutch, what nonsense! And this is why you stayed away?”
My temper snapped. I stood, shoving back my chair. “I stayed away because you loved Linc more than you ever loved me!”
My mother gasped. My father gaped at me. The servant silently excused himself from the room and disappeared.
“Jackson Walker Boudreaux,” said my mother in a halting, horrified whisper. She was white as a sheet. Her eyes filled with tears. “That is a terrible thing to say, and untrue!”
My father said crossly, “Well now you’ve done it. Congratulations, boy. You’ve made your mother cry.”
He went to her, took her hand and held it, crooned soothing words to her as she wept and I looked on, convinced I was in a state of shock so severe I’d had a mental break with reality.
Finally when he’d calmed her down, he pulled himself to his full height, straightened his shoulders, and let me have it.
“Now you listen to me real good, son, because I’m only gonna say this once. We love you. We love you now, we loved you then, we’ll love you until we die. You’re our son. We know we weren’t perfect parents, but you were a handful. Maybe we didn’t always know the right way to deal with you, but we never loved you less than your brother. Never. And we never blamed you for his death, either, even though I know you think we did.”
When I blinked in shock, he nodded. “That’s right. I’m not stupid. You got my blood in your veins, you think I don’t know what you’re thinkin’? But you’re a stubborn SOB—just like me. Once you get your mind set, that’s it.”
My mother made a placating noise, and he heaved a great sigh. “But it was my fault for leavin’ it alone for so long. I shoulda . . . done something. I don’t know. Made you talk to me. But gettin’ you to talk is like pullin’ teeth.”
He waved a hand in the air like he wanted to dismiss that last part. “Anyway. The bottom line is that the past is past. We’re gonna have a new daughter-in-law. It’s time we started actin’ like a family again. By the way, we love Bianca. What a firecracker. Hopefully we’ll have another grandbaby or two by this time next year.”
I stared at him. I stared at my mother. I opened my mouth and found I had no words.
“Well, look at that, Clemmy,” said my father. “Ha! I’ve left him speechless. Score one for the old man.”
I sank into the chair and put my head into my hands.
The servant reappeared, set a Bloody Dixie on the table in front of me, and murmured, “I hope you still like these, sir. Thought you might need it. Welcome home.”
When he disappeared again it was to the sound of my soft, disbelieving laughter.
BLOODY DIXIE
Makes 4 servings
1 32-ounce bottle of tomato juice
2 ounces vodka
1 tablespoon freshly grated horseradish (or prepared)
1 tablespoon lemon juice
1 tablespoon hot sauce
1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce
dash of celery salt
dash of pepper
4 slices cooked bacon
4 ribs celery
Preparation
Pour out ¼ cup tomato juice from bottle.
Mix horseradish, lemon juice, hot sauce, Worcestershire, celery salt, and pepper into the remaining tomato juice in bottle and shake vigorously.
Add ice to 4 highball glasses.
Pour 2 ounces vodka over ice in each glass (or to your taste).
Add tomato juice mix to fill.
Stir, then garnish with bacon and celery.
THIRTY-FOUR
BIANCA
I was singing loudly and badly in the shower when the glass door opened and Jackson stepped in.
“Don’t stop,” he said, amused. “I still have ten percent of my hearing left.”
He was naked, calm, acting like we showered together every day of the week. He stepped in front of me, blocking the spray, and took the bar of soap from my limp hands as I ogled him.
Jackson naked was one thing. Jackson naked and wet was something else altogether. Water worshipped his muscles, making all those gorgeous, golden bulges gleam and sparkle like he’d been photoshopped by a mad, horny housewife. He tipped his head back to wet his hair, and it was in Technicolor slo-mo, a sexy soundtrack playing in the background. I watched with my mouth hanging open as he slowly began to soap his chest.
Even Trace hadn’t reached this level of physical perfection. I was showering with a Greek god. With art. How had I been so blind?
Around the estrogen surge wreaking havoc in my nervous system, I said, “I’ll have you know I won a talent contest once with my excellent rendition of ‘You Are My Sunshine.’”
Jackson shook his head, spraying water droplets from his dark hair, and smiled down at me. He turned me around and started soaping my shoulders and back, gently digging his thumbs into the muscles. I groaned in pleasure. He said, “Really? How old were you? Seven?”
“Eight.” I pouted. “Jerk.”
He chuckled. “You don’t think I’m a jerk.” He bent down to kiss my ear. It brought his warm, wet skin in velvety contact with mine. He whispered, “In fact I think you like me.” He slid an arm around my waist, pinning me against the wall of his hard body.
I trashed my previous position that heaven was a library with every book ever written. No. Heaven was showering with a big, naked, soapy man who had a husky voice and a gentle sense of humor and an erection that should have its own zip code. I relaxed into his embrace with a happy sigh.
“Maybe,” I said, almost purring as he massaged my neck. “The jury’s still out.”
His big hand slid from my neck to my shoulder, then down my arm. He curved his fingers around my rib cage, reverently tracing each rib like it was a love story in braille, then palmed my breast.<
br />
He murmured, “You said you wouldn’t lie to me, sweetheart,” and tweaked my hard nipple with his thumb.
When I gasped and jumped like I’d had a mild electric shock, he chuckled again. “Any other lies you want to tell?”
“Um. I felt nothing when you did that?”
“Oh, that’s a good one,” he whispered, thumbing back and forth over my nipple as I shivered in delight. “You must be shivering because it’s so cold in here.”
Hot steam billowed all around us. I couldn’t help myself, and laughed. “Definitely.”
He gently bit my neck, which I was quickly realizing was one of my favorite things in the world. He was never rough, no matter where he pressed his teeth. It was like he was testing the firmness of my flesh, like he found me so delicious he wanted to eat me. Savor me, bite by bite. Hold my flavor on his tongue and enjoy it, like one would with bourbon or a fine wine.
My head resting on his shoulder, I reached up and wound my arms around his neck. That gave him access to all the girly real estate on my body, which he immediately claimed.
His lips still on my neck, he ran his hands down my sides, armpits to hips, his grip firm and possessive. His erection dug into my bottom. He flattened his hands over my stomach.
“I love this belly,” he said faintly. He dragged his hands up to my breasts. “And these. So pretty. So perfect. Look how perfectly they fit in my hands.”
He cupped them to prove his point. It was incredibly erotic, looking down at myself, his wet, soapy hands full of me. The way he touched me made me feel proud of my body, intensely feminine and powerful, though he could overpower me in a heartbeat if he wanted to.
His hands slid lower. Past my waist to the triangle between my legs. “And this,” he breathed into my ear, slipping his soapy fingers into my folds as I gasped. “I love this. I want this in my mouth or my hands or on my cock every day for the rest of my life.”
Burn for You (Slow Burn Book 1) Page 28
