Her lips are so freaking soft and her tongue moves with mine so easily. And now her warm, small body is flat on top of mine, except her legs, which are still bent on either side of my hips, and I put my hands on her ass to push her into me again. She lets out this crazy hot little sigh and I worry I might come in my pants.
Desperate to touch her skin, my hands find their way under her sweatshirt. She rocks again on my lap and moves her hands down my sides and under my shirt. I wrap a hand around her back and flip her so she’s on her side beside me on her bed, and I break the kiss to press my lips to that spot just under her earlobe—the spot she liked my lips on last time. As soon as I suck the tender flesh into my mouth, she reaches for the front of my jeans.
“Jordy…” she sighs, popping my button as I do the same to her.
My fingers find their way quicker than hers and before I know it, I’m slipping through her slick folds and pushing a finger into her. She arches her back a little and whispers my name again as her fingers push into my underwear and find the tip of my cock. The gentle contact and the feel of her wetness brings a heat to my balls and stars to my eyes. How can she make me want to come so quickly? It’s insane. It’s scary.
“We can’t. Not now,” she says, but her she moves her hand deeper into my underwear and presses me into her palm as she curls her fingers over me.
“I know,” I agree, and push another finger into her warm, wet pussy. She squeezes me in return.
My thumb rubs over the area above her opening and she bucks into my hand and gasps so I do it again. With every push of her hips her hand, wrapped around my cock, pulls and pushes, creating an incredible friction. We start to develop a rhythm, and in a few minutes I know I’m going to lose it. And I think she is too because she’s wetter and her skin is hotter and she’s panting against my neck.
“Jordy…oh god, I’m…”
“Yes. God. Yes. Do it. Please,” I beg, and my orgasm starts to crawl through my body, gaining momentum as it rumbles toward its exit. And for the first time in my life I try to fight it, wanting her to have one first.
“I’m…” She presses her open mouth to mine instead of finishing the sentence, and with her tongue in my mouth we both climax.
Her body goes limp on the bed beside me, her mouth falling away from me and resting on her arm. Her other hand stays in my jeans still loosely holding me. I slip my hand out of her underwear and she shudders a little. I wrap it around her back, pull her closer and rest my palm on her perfect ass.
“Jordan, I…”
There’s a loud knock on my door and before we can even move, the door swings open.
“Jordy, are you done packing beca—” My mother freezes, her mouth hanging open midsentence.
Jessie and I are frozen. My mother’s eyes sweep over Jessie’s back, pausing at my hand on the ass of her jeans, and then they sweep up to find my guilty, terrified face. She blinks and steps back out of the room, closing the door behind her.
Jessie, suddenly unfrozen, scurries off the bed, back over toward the window. Worried she’s going to climb right back out and break her neck, I grab her by the shoulders. Her hands cover her face.
“Oh God, Jordy, now your mom thinks I’m a whore!”
I laugh, and it comes out higher and louder than my normal laugh because of the fear and adrenaline running through my veins. I try to hug her again but she squirms away, realizes her pants are undone and rushes to do them up.
“She didn’t see anything but my hand on your ass, don’t worry,” I assure her, but I’m worried she may have also seen Jessie’s hand in the front of my jeans.
Jessie covers her face with her hands again.
“My mom loves you like a daughter,” I quietly assure her. “If anyone is on her shit list for this, it’s me.”
“I’m so embarrassed,” she whispers as there is another knock at the door.
“I’m coming in!” Luc’s voice booms, and the door slowly creaks open. His head pokes in, eyes closed and then he opens one eye.
“Just come in, for crying out loud,” I grumble.
Luc grins as he steps inside. He looks like he can barely contain his laughter. He opens his mouth to speak, closes it and smiles again, then clears his throat awkwardly and finally talks.
“Donna asked me to drive Jessie home,” he explains.
“I’m so embarrassed,” she groans again.
“It’s fine,” Luc assures her like I did. “She’s not pissed, I swear. She’s just shocked.”
Jessie uncovers her face and looks at him hopefully. He nods and reaches out to take her hand, leading her toward the door. “Trust me, I know the difference. She caught Kelsey Stoll in my room last year and she did more than just blush and stutter. She freaking yelled. No stuttering. No blushing. Just rage.”
I remember that incident and can’t help but smile as he leads Jessie out of the room.
She turns in the doorway and runs back, rocking up on her tiptoes to give me a solid kiss on the mouth. “Good luck in the draft.”
I watch her tiny body disappear from sight and then sit on my bed and wait for my mother to appear. I’m not the first kid to get caught in a compromising position in this house. Last summer my father walked in on Devin in the basement den with some girl from the community college straddling his lap in nothing but jeans and a bra.
Even though they grounded him—no TV or video games and no nights out other than hockey practice for two weeks—I think my dad was pretty impressed that he’d scored a college chick. I know I was. And like Luc told Jessie, right before Thanksgiving, my mom caught Kelsey, a girl who went to the Catholic school, sneaking out of Luc’s room at three in the morning. He wasn’t allowed to borrow the car for two weeks, and no video games.
So, my mom was used to punishing us for this kind of thing, and I had a good idea of what was coming, but still this feels like it might be more severe because it was Jessie. My mom will probably feel the need to protect her honor or something.
There’s a knock at the door, and I can see her shadow in the crack, since Jessie and Luc never closed it, but she doesn’t come in.
“Oh, so now you wait for me to say enter?” I call out, slightly amused despite the gravity of the situation. “Enter!”
She steps inside, closes the door and leans against, it crossing her arms over her chest. She opens her mouth to speak, but falters when her blue eyes so similar to mine take in my battered face.
“Who hit you?” she demands, and steps closer, reaching out and gingerly touching the scab forming by my lip.
“Chance Echolls. Because I hit him first.”
She folds her arms again. “Over Jessie?”
“Yes. Over Jessie.”
“Jordan…” She says my name, but nothing else.
“Mom, we’re…we want to be together,” I say, and I know it sounds so lame, but I hope she doesn’t dismiss this—or me—as just being a teenager thing. This feels like the least teenagery thing I’ve ever said to her.
She doesn’t dismiss me at all. She smiles. It’s small and she’s fighting it, but she smiles. “Okay.”
“That’s it?”
She kind of shrugs and lets the smile take a little more shape on her face. “Jessie is a wonderful young woman. She’s smart, she’s kind and she cares about you very much. I’m happy you realize how much you care about her too.”
I feel my shoulders relax. I didn’t realize I was tensing them so much. But then my mother sighs and her smile disappears.
“I thought this might happen—the two of you—but I didn’t think it would happen so soon. I thought maybe in a few years after she finished college, and when you were more mature and ready for a real relationship.”
“I’m ready now,” I declare.
She doesn’t even try to hide the fact that she doesn’t believe me. I feel a ripple of frustration run through me. “I’m about to go off to live in a different city, away from you and Dad, and start a career—not a job. A career.”
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“Does Hannah know about this?” my mother asks. “Because she’s been calling the house phone all night. She said you weren’t answering your cell and she needed to talk to you.”
“I ended it with Hannah. She didn’t take it well,” I admit.
“Jordan, she thought you were committed to her,” my mother reminds me. “You must have broken her heart.”
I feel more frustration. “What was I supposed to do? Stay with her even though I like Jessie?”
“Of course not. I just feel bad for the poor girl.” My mother walks toward the bedroom door. “I’m going to get you some ice. The draft is televised, you know. Probably best if you don’t look so rough.”
She leaves and as I wait for her return, I think about my conversation with Jessie. Basically I just invited her to move away with me. And she looked like she was ready to do it. I’m both terrified and excited by that. I know I love her, but everything is suddenly moving so fast. The look on my mother’s face—like she thinks this is a mistake—isn’t helping my sudden anxiety either. When she comes back with a bag of frozen peas for my face, I tell her again how much I love Jessie.
“Breaking up with Hannah was the adult thing to do, Mom,” I say firmly, and turn to look her in the eye so she knows I’m serious. “I wasn’t as serious about Hannah as I am about Jessie.”
She pauses, looking at me like a slow kid who has trouble tying his shoelaces or something. I start to feel frustrated again but she gives my shoulder a squeeze, as if to calm me down.
“Something tells me there was a time when I could have caught you and Hannah in the same compromising position I caught you and Jessie in.” Her expression is stern and before I can lie and say no, she continues. “I have accepted that my sons are not waiting for marriage. That’s the way life works nowadays, but I will not look the other way if I think you’re not respecting these girls. Or if I think you’re only interested in them for…one thing. Do you understand, Jordan?”
I swallow back any flippant comment I might consider making and just nod. “It’s not just about…that. I swear.”
She stares at me for a minute and I fight the urge to look away. This is so freaking uncomfortable, but I know that the adult thing to do is to not squirm or look away. If this is what it takes to make her think that I am an adult, then I can do it. I think it works because she nods at me and gives me a small smile.
“So, what’s my punishment?” I ask as I lie back on my bed, holding the peas to my face.
She shakes her head and a strand of her light hair falls out of the low ponytail she’s sporting. “No punishment.”
“What?”
“Are you in love with Jessie?” she asks simply.
I nod without hesitation.
“I won’t punish you for love, but you will never do that again in this house. Understand? And wherever that does happen, you better be using protection.”
“Oh my God. Mom!” I shift the peas so they cover more of my face as my cheeks start turning pink.
“This may be an adult relationship with Jessie, but neither of you is mature enough for a child,” she says frankly and seriously. “So, promise me. Protection.”
“God, Mom!”
“Promise me, Jordan.”
“Yes. Of course! Man. Fine. I promise! Now stop talking about it.”
I hear her laugh as she walks out of the room.
Chapter 7
Jessie
I stare at myself in the full-length mirror behind my old bedroom door. I’m fairly certain I look okay for a funeral. I decided on a pair of charcoal gray pants and a pretty, crocheted cardigan in the same color. Under it, I opted for a pale pink tank with lacey straps and edges. Grandma Lily loved pink. And although we had our issues when she was alive, she would have liked the pink, so I decided to give her this one last thing.
I have the faintest trace of dark circles under my eyes, but luckily makeup has made them all but invisible. I barely slept last night. I couldn’t stop reliving the memories of our night together in this room. Finally, after hours, I resorted to an old trick I’ve relied on to pull my brain away from romantic memories and back to reality. I grabbed my phone, pulled up Google Images and punched in Jordan Garrison. The screen filled with his face, which you think would be even more painful, but it wasn’t. Ninety percent of the photos weren’t of him on the ice or in his uniform looking like a sexy, strong, rich and professional athlete. Most of the photos were of Jordan Garrison, the professional manwhore. Cell phone pictures of him people have given or sold to hockey blogs. Jordan in nightclubs, after games, grinding random skanks on dance floors, sticking his tongue down girls’ throats on VIP room couches, walking in and out of hotels on road trips with different blondes, brunettes and redheads. There’s paparazzi shots of him celebrating after he won the Stanley Cup with the Royales three years ago. He’s helping some girl with big boobs and a low-cut shirt drink out of the Cup, beer slopping everywhere. My favorites are the shots of him licking off the beer that dribbled onto her cleavage. Those hurt the most because we used to talk about what he’d do if he won the Stanley Cup—every hockey players’ dream—and his answer had been the same since he was twelve. “I want to drink champagne out of the Cup with my family—and you. Promise you’ll be there to celebrate with me, Jessie.” So yeah, that picture always managed to pull me back to reality and allow me to turn my brain off and sleep rather than wallow in unrequited love for a boy who simply didn’t exist anymore.
I head downstairs to where Callie and Rose are waiting for me in the kitchen. Callie is in a plain, short but acceptable black cotton shirtdress with the sleeves rolled up, no nylons, black cowboy boots and a black-cropped leather jacket. Rose is in simple black pants and a dark green blouse with a thick black belt cinching her petite waist. I feel plain compared to them, which shouldn’t matter—it’s a damn funeral. My sisters, even on a somber day, shine. This feeling is nothing new. I grew up feeling that they outshined me. In a way, I was glad for it. It meant I’d done my job, the job no one else in our lives did, and protected them, keeping that brilliant glow from being tarnished.
As I pour a cup of coffee and stir sugar and milk into it, I realize Rose is intently watching my every move. I give her a suspicious glance.
“What?”
“What? What?” she asks, her coal-colored eyes wide with fake innocence.
“How was Last Call?” I ask because I didn’t hear them come home.
“It was good,” Rose begins, but she’s suddenly looking everywhere but at me. “Cole says hi. He’s going to be there today.”
“That’s nice of him,” I reply, watching her fidget with her belt. “Who else from the old gang was there?”
“I hung out with Mandie most of the night,” Callie blurts out rather aggressively, like she’s trying to make sure Rose doesn’t answer before her. “She’s got a kid now, did you know that? No husband, just a kid. Some dude from Lewiston knocked her up.”
“Oh.” I sip my coffee. Rose is still fidgeting. “Rose, is something wrong?”
Callie turns to our younger sister. Her thick chestnut hair acts as a shield, so I can’t see what she mouths to Rose.
“I just…I want to get to the church and get this over with,” she confesses, and I see an anxious look in her eyes, like she used to get before recitals when she played the flute in high school.
“We should get going,” Callie agrees, and I nod.
It’s a ten-minute drive to the church, and the cab of the truck is filled with a weird, thick silence that I don’t think is completely due to our dead grandmother. But I can’t figure out what in the world is wrong.
When we pull into the church parking lot, I notice Donna and Wyatt’s other truck—the one they didn’t lend us—is already there along with a few others.
Callie parks and I notice the door to the Garrison truck is open. I can see a foot dangling out. It’s not wearing a shoe but a boot, like an air cast type of boot…And for a quick, insan
e second, I think: How did Wyatt break his foot? But as I think that, I see Wyatt standing by the church doors next to Donna, looking dapper in a dark blue suit. I stop breathing and my mouth goes dry.
“Who…? Who is that?”
And then the truck is an explosion of voices.
“He came down for the funeral.”
“I told him you didn’t want him here.”
“He was at the bar last night looking for you.”
“He’s an asshole!”
“He was an asshole.”
“He still is, Rose!”
My sisters’ words assault my brain and I blink, gripping the door handle so tightly I think I might break my fingers. Despite their words and what I know in my heart, I start begging the universe that it’s Cole or Devin or please, dear God, Luc getting out of that truck.
But then he’s standing there—in full view—slamming the door shut with one hand and doing up his sport coat with the other. He’s got a black wool beanie on his head, blond hair escaping in random wisps in every direction. He moves to turn toward the church, but his light blue eyes land on the truck we’re sitting in—the truck he probably bought his parents. Those eyes find me through the windshield.
He looks so overwhelmingly the same, and yet he’s completely unfamiliar at the same time. It’s what I imagine having amnesia feels like—he looks so much like someone I should know and love, but I have no idea who he is anymore. The only thing that I do know, with complete certainty, is that he is still so gorgeous, looking at him makes it hard for me to breathe. Bastard.
“Jessie, please say something,” Rose begs.
“I’m going to ask him to leave.” Callie opens the driver’s-side door.
I reach out and grab her hand. “Don’t.”
Both Rose and Callie stare at me.
“It’s fine. I’m fine.” I promise them this in a voice that doesn’t even attempt to cover up the fact that I am anything but fine. “If he wants to be here, that’s fine. It changes nothing. Let’s just…let’s just…go inside.”
One More Shot (Hometown Players #1) Page 7
