by Tessa Bailey
Jasmine turned to him with a raised eyebrow. “See, you get to leave and avoid the jokes. I have to stay and live with them.”
Sarge laughed, but the sound was void of any actual humor. Thankfully, neither Jasmine nor River seemed to notice as they entered the house. Jasmine’s quip had been a nice little reminder that she would be just peachy once he left. No pining on her end. Just his, as always.
Unless he did something about it.
His dark thoughts were obliterated when a tiny blond fairy sprinted across his line of vision, before skidding to a halt and falling with a plop onto her butt. At first, he couldn’t see her face because the tumble had loosened her ponytail and covered her face with hair. Hands covered in paint scrambled to push it out of her eyes. Eyes that locked on him like big blue spotlights. Sarge felt his heart grow about fifteen damn sizes inside his chest…
“Mommy, who’s that man?”
…and then it up and shattered all over the floor like a glass balloon.
River helped her daughter stand. “Remember, Marcy? I told you Uncle Sarge was coming over to eat dinner at our house. Uncle Sarge is Mommy’s brother.”
Her tiny nose wrinkled. “Celia’s brother is little. Why is yours big?”
“Celia is her friend from school,” River explained before kneeling down beside her daughter. “Sarge is much older than Celia’s little brother. Someday her little brother will grow up, too.”
Marcy gave Sarge a once-over. “Can I hold this one in a blanket?”
The two women covered their mouths to hold in laughter, but Sarge had no such problem. He was too fascinated by the miniature version of his sister to consider laughing. When he realized the silence had gone on too long and everyone was staring at him, he shook himself. “I have a thing. A, uh…thing.” He swiped the jewelry case out of his back pocket, held it awkwardly for a few seconds, before holding it out to Marcy.
After looking up at River for permission, Marcy took a few steps closer, snatched the box, and retreated just as fast. He expected a little girl’s prerogative to be to rip off the paper as fast as possible and ask questions later, but she turned it over in her hands, inspecting it like a diamond appraiser. Sarge felt Jasmine watching him and turned to catch her eye, but she snapped her attention back to Marcy before he got a fix. The wrapping paper hit the floor a moment later, and after a small struggle, Marcy pried open the box with River’s help.
Oh Lord. I’m a goner. Marcy beamed up at him through a gap in her wispy strands of straw-colored hair, and regret that he’d missed the first three years of her life smacked him in the face. Had anything he’d done on the road been worth it?
Marcy tried to fit the necklace over her head without unfastening it, grunting when it got stuck above her nose. “You’re better than Celia’s brother, I think.”
When River nudged him in the shoulder, Sarge realized he was smiling like a goofball, but it vanished when he saw tears in his sister’s eyes. “Come on, you necklace-giving jerk.” She sniffed, taking his elbow and leading him out of the entryway. “Dinner’s ready.”
For Sarge, meals were usually unceremonious. Grab a sandwich between recording sessions, stealing a slice of pizza from whoever had taken the trouble to order food. Old News had an unspoken rule that food was a communal entity. Unless it came to James’s ever-present box of Triscuits, then God help the poor soul whose hand breached the opening. Sarge had learned that lesson the hard way.
Dinner with three women—okay, two and a half—was an entirely different affair. They took their time, actually breathing between bites, not even arguing over the last dinner roll. Sarge started to protest when River dumped a third helping of mashed potatoes onto his plate, but stopped himself. The more he ate, the happier his sister seemed to get, so he kept packing it away. Until he saw River and Jasmine exchange a covert glance, their amusement obvious.
“Oh, I see. This is some kind of conspiracy.” He dropped his fork with a clatter onto the plate and collapsed back in the chair. “I guess there are worse ways to go than overdosing on mashed potatoes.”
River burst out laughing. “It wasn’t premeditated, but you just kept going.”
“Who are we to question that kind of dedication?” Jasmine said, smiling into her Diet Coke. “It was like you were competing in a contest against yourself. We hereby declare you the winner.”
“You even got Marcy to sit still for a whole meal.” River nodded at her giggling daughter. “I think she’s in shock.”
“Marcy,” Sarge groaned. “Tell them to stop teasing me.”
The little phenom responded by sliding off her chair and rounding the table to climb onto Sarge’s knee. Her elbow dug into his stomach, upsetting the food mountain residing there, but the discomfort was worth it. River brought out dessert a few minutes later. Sarge only managed a bite before tapping out, content to watch Marcy get more chocolate cake on her face than into her stomach. By the time she was finished, her eyes were half closed, head lolling to the side in obvious exhaustion. It was the best dinner Sarge ever had.
“Jas, can you get Marcy’s teeth brushed and put her in bed?” River stood and began clearing the table. “I’m going to get these into the dishwasher.”
“You got it.” When Jasmine stood beside Sarge’s chair, he handed over the sleepy child, his throat aching when they had to pry her fingers from around his shirt collar. Something passed between him and Jasmine when their eyes met, but he had no idea what it was. Or what it meant. He only knew everything about the moment felt good. Felt right. And he wanted to do it all over again tomorrow.
There was no stopping his watching every step Jasmine took up the stairs, carrying his niece on her hip, but as soon as she disappeared upstairs, Sarge went to help River in the kitchen.
“So listen…” she started, covering leftovers and storing them in the fridge. “I know it’s short notice and probably a lot to ask—”
“What is it?”
River leaned back against the counter. “There’s a church service at Holy Cross on Christmas Eve. I helped organize the potluck dinner afterward at the school gymnasium across the street, and…” She tucked a stray hair behind her ear. “Would you bring your guitar and play a song or two?”
Sarge’s eyebrows damn near hit the ceiling. “My songs aren’t exactly church-friendly, Riv.”
“I know.” Pink stained her cheeks. “You could sing a Christmas song, though. You know. Instead of a sex one.”
“A sex one.” He shook his head. “I thought I knew the meaning of weird. Until tonight.”
His sister snapped the dish towel and caught him in the thigh. “Just think about it, okay? You’re one of the lucky ones that made it out of Hook. It makes you kind of a big deal.” She turned back to the sink. “Now, go kiss your newest admirer good-night. And I’m not talking about Jasmine.”
“Right.” Rubbing the back of his neck, Sarge pushed through the swinging door of the kitchen and ascended the stairs. He reached the landing just in time to catch Jasmine walking out of Marcy’s room, index finger over her lips with a warning to stay quiet. His flare of disappointment over missing his chance to say good-night to Marcy was eclipsed by a righteous punch of hunger when Jasmine hesitated in front of him. As if she wanted to head back downstairs where it was safe, but couldn’t quite ignore their being alone again. Not about to let that hesitation go unrewarded, Sarge nudged her back against the hallway wall, gratified as hell when her mouth fell open in a husky pant.
“Not here.”
Sarge wondered if she was aware of her hands fisting in his T-shirt, yanking him closer. “Where, baby?” he muttered against the top of her head. “You want to pull the car over a block from here and mount me on the passenger seat? Or wait until we’re somewhere I can spread you out and eat you first?”
“Dios. I don’t know,” she breathed, making him pull back to scrutinize her face. She raked her teeth over that pouty lower lip, stiffening his cock. “We just had dinner with your sister, a
nd, well…it reminded me that you’re too young for me, Sarge.”
“Why can’t my being younger work to our advantage?” Sarge asked, tugging her away from the wall, sliding a palm down her rounded backside. He gave the taut flesh a firm squeeze, lifting her up and against him, groaning at the back of his throat when the vee of her thighs notched over his rising erection. Sweet fuck. Her leggings made her as good as naked in this position, allowing him to feel the separation of female flesh, the smooth skin on either side. He hadn’t been this horny since…that morning. Then again outside on the walkway. How much more of this could he take before ripping her mother-loving clothes off, not a damn given to their surroundings?
What had they been talking about? Right. The advantages of him being seven years younger. This was so not the discussion to have upstairs at his sister’s house, but he had Jasmine’s attention and he wouldn’t waste it.
Sarge transferred his other hand to her ass so both of them were gripping the swell of her cheeks, massaging them slowly. “Yeah, I’m younger. That means I’ll need you more often. I probably won’t let you out of bed in the morning until you’re covered in sweat.” When her head tipped back on an uneven exhale, he ran his tongue up her sweet-smelling neck, not even attempting to be neat. He wanted to leave a trail, wanted to know it was there. “I can fill you full of thick dick every time you need to orgasm. Can make it last until you’ve had enough and your fucking legs start to cramp around my waist.”
“Leg cramps shouldn’t sound so good,” she whispered, slipping a hand beneath his shirt and tracing devastating patterns over his abs. He felt every single one of them below his belt, as if she were jacking him off instead of touching his stomach. Goddamn, his cock felt heavy and abused in his jeans, reminding him of that sweltering summer his last year in Hook when he couldn’t take two steps without seeing Jasmine in a tight dress or a bathing suit.
“I’m young enough to learn new tricks, too, baby. Learn what makes you scream the loudest, come the hardest, and brings you back for a second, third, and fourth helping.”
Finally, finally, their lips slid together and his knees almost liquefied from the force of his need, so he tightened his legs and shoved up between her thighs. “I want to fuck you like a beast in heat, Jasmine. And you’re wiggling around on top of my cock like you want it bad. So tell me again why my age is a problem.”
She answered him in the form of a French kiss, her tongue sliding into his partially open mouth and dragging an agonized groan from his throat. He didn’t remember backing Jasmine toward the opposite wall, but suddenly she was flattened by his body on the hard surface while their mouths mated. If someone gave him the choice of a juicy orange or Jasmine’s mouth after a week without sustenance, he would have stomped on the orange and gone after her like a starving caveman.
Her fingers twined in his hair, that mindfuck body humping his lap with the small amount of movement their position allowed. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Sarge knew he needed to pull back and wait for the right time. Like when they weren’t five feet from his niece’s room and a few climbed stairs from his sister discovering them. But Jasmine was purring in her throat and hooking her right leg over his hip to get more cock between her thighs and—
“Oh, shit. Okay,” Jasmine panted, breaking away on a strangled moan. “We have to stop.”
“I know.” Sarge gave a slow roll of his hips, his breathing rough against her swollen mouth. “So quit trying to get me inside you through my jeans and I’ll stop.”
The sound that escaped her was half laugh, half sob. “This is crazy.”
“No.” He licked her upper lip, snagged it with his teeth. “Crazy would be staying away from each other because I’m a little younger.”
“We need, like…parameters. Or something.”
“Fine.” With a mighty will, Sarge eased back and let her slip down the wall. “You’ve got the car ride home to decide what they are.”
And Sarge had the ride home to remind himself of his own parameters. He could let his body sink in and take, but his head needed to stay above water. He needed to remember what the hell of unsatisfied need felt like—and remember who’d been responsible for putting him there. Tonight he would finally break free.
Why did his own assurance sound so unconvincing?
Chapter Eight
Jasmine watched Sarge’s denim-hugged thighs move as he climbed the stairs to her apartment, a few yards in front of her. She’d insisted he go first, knowing if she felt him staring at her backside with all that brooding concentration, she’d turn around and hurtle herself right toward his sexy bulk, crying take me, take me, please. Like some kind of demented, sex-starved meteor from Planet Horny.
Parameters, parameters…
Whose idea had that been? Hers. Yes! It was a damn good idea, too, because bad things were afoot. Very bad things, indeed. She’d been feeling Sarge on a physical level since he’d shown up and mowed down Carmine at the Third Shift. Since he’d boosted her up on the kitchen counter like she weighed less than a flea and proceeded to dirty talk her panties into a twist. Tonight, though, things had…shifted. Sarge had all those qualities she remembered. He was perceptive when it came to people’s feelings, especially his sister. He could laugh at himself. Facets of a man’s personality Jasmine had assumed couldn’t be maintained when being showered with all-out fan worship.
Sarge had not only maintained those qualities, he’d turned into an entirely different monster. One that had the nerve to show up with the perfect princess necklace and look like he’d just been hit with a cement truck upon meeting his niece.
What an asshole.
Because now the situation had graduated from wanting to jump Sarge’s bones to being interested in what went on behind those blue eyes. Why had he left Hook so abruptly four years ago? What had prompted his return?
Did he sleep with tons of groupies?
Do not ask. Do not even think of maybe asking that.
She shouldn’t care. Sarge’s bedroom activities before and after they slept together—of which she was still debating the wisdom—should be a nonissue. However, while it was on her mind…of course he slept with tons of girls on the road. He was a veritable rock star with almost irritatingly good looks. All of his female admirers were probably a shit-ton younger than her, too. How would she stack up to them?
Jasmine tugged her apartment keys out of her purse, striving for nonchalance even though Sarge had an elbow propped on the doorframe, watching her like a dragon from the shadows.
“What?”
He shook his head. “Don’t what me.”
God, since when did her lock stick? She tugged and jiggled, but the damn thing wouldn’t turn. Meanwhile, Sarge’s body heat was like an industrial-sized oven beside her. “I listened to your new album at work today.”
A flicker of surprised pleasure crossed his face, but he hid it just as fast. “Yeah?”
“Mmm-hmm.” She’d told River it was a podcast playing in her headphones, figuring she’d been honest with her friend enough for one day. “Were those…thoughts always bumping around in that head of yours? Or did they show up after you got stuck in a lightning storm or something?”
Sarge braced a hand on the doorframe and leaned closer. “Which thoughts are you referring to, Jas?”
“You know.” Finally, she managed to get the door open—and not a moment too soon, since Sarge was licking his lips like a starved lion, ready to pounce. “The way you talk about women.”
His boots thunked on the wood floor as he followed her into the apartment, shrugging off his coat as he entered. “Women plural, huh? Is that what you got from my songs?”
Jasmine hung her own coat in the hall closet, relieved to be facing away. “Oh, come on.” Don’t. Don’t doooo it. “I’m sure there’s been tons of opportunities on the road for…the kind of experience you need to write…those songs.” Callate estupida.
Finished hanging her coat, Jasmine turned—and bit back a scream, n
early tumbling backward into the closet. Sarge was standing close—so damn close—with a displeased expression on his face. He looked older, wiser…and just a hint weary in a way that she tried not to let fascinate her. “I have to feel something to write a song. I have to want.” He jabbed a hand through his hair, leaving it standing out at stray angles. “I’ve never felt anything close to that on the road. Ever. And I wouldn’t call waking up to someone you don’t recognize an opportunity. I wouldn’t even give it a name because that might give it some importance.”
A spiky ball rolled through Jasmine’s chest. “Sarge, I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine.” He closed his eyes a moment, opening to reveal just a flash of temper. Pain. “Just do me a favor? At least for tonight, try to pretend like you don’t get a kick out of me with other people. Pretend it makes you fucking ill, the way I feel when I slip and imagine the reverse.”
Jasmine was left standing on liquefied knees, heart knocking against her ribs as Sarge strode into her bedroom, the way a king might. She watched as he kicked off his boots, toeing them under her bed with a heated look over his shoulder. “You coming or do I need to come get you?”
“We haven’t talked parameters yet.” When his back stiffened, she felt a rush of frustration. “While you’re here, while we’re…together this way, I don’t want people in Hook to know about it.”
He’d stopped moving. “You want to explain why?”
The frustration broke into winged pieces, demanding to be let free. “You haven’t been here. You don’t understand.”
“Try me,” Sarge said, facing her with a hooded expression.
“I…failed. Okay? I failed where you didn’t. The most ambitious girl in town didn’t even make it through the Lincoln Tunnel.” She joined him in the room to begin digging through her underwear drawer, not looking for anything in particular, just needing an activity for her hands. “They’ve treated me differently since then. Carefully. With sympathy. If they know what we’re doing, they’ll see it for something it isn’t. Me trying to recapture the success I never really had in the first place. Through you. You know they will.”
