It Started with a Kiss, page 8
“That my fiancée didn’t call my name out in ecstasy?”
“That and the whole fiasco.” Twirling the stem of my glass, I ask, “How did you end up here, especially at this hour?”
He glances out the window. I thought he was a lot older earlier, older than me, but I’m now rethinking my guess. I’d say early thirties at most once he relaxed. “I was heading from a bar down the street where a large group of us went to celebrate—”
“You were celebrating?”
He shrugs. “Figured I dodged a bullet. Was I hurt? Pissed off? Yes, of course. I loved her. I’ve also had a few hours and some drinks to reevaluate the relationship. The image of my best friend and fiancée fucking before marrying me, and then everyone I know hearing them kind of tainted that love. Now I wonder if she loved me at all.”
He looks down for a moment, and I wonder if he’s secretly grieving. Or whether more anger and grief will come in time. He looks up again, and adds, “When she chose Barry, she made the decision regarding our future. I may not have had a say, but I know I dodged a bullet, and if I’m meant to have a second chance to find my soul mate, I’m taking it.”
He smiles then, and it does make me wonder why his fiancée was such an asshole to cheat on him. His food is delivered alongside mine, our orders in bags and ready to go. His dark eyes take me in again, and he says, “I can’t leave without asking. You want to get a table and eat together?”
The air thickens as I take another sip. He’s entertaining, and it’s been nice not to live in my own problems for a few minutes. “This has been unexpectedly fun—”
“But?”
I nod as the smell of my food wafts, making my stomach growl. “But I’m sort of stuck in a mess of my own that I’m trying to work out.”
This time, he nods. “Read the signs. Good or bad, they’re always there.”
I slip off the barstool and take my bag in hand. “Since we’re strangers, I should tell you that I’m terrible with directions, so reading signs isn’t my forté.”
Swirling the liquid around his glass, he laughs again. “Oh, yeah?”
“Do you mind if I ask you one more question before I go?” He tips his chin in permission. “Is it possible to see the signs before the bad happens?”
A heavy sigh is released from his chest before he finishes his drink. Setting the glass down, he finally looks at me. “Don’t waste your time on the bad. Look for the good instead.”
I’m not sure what to make of that, but that could be because of the hour. “Good luck with that new lease on life.”
“Thanks. Take care.”
“You, too.”
When I walk out, I’m still starving, but my mind is now on other things. Using a rideshare app, I’m picked up quickly and settle in the back. Thinking about the turn my night just took, and the even crazier story, I soak in the words of wisdom. I mean, I figure they must have some wisdom in them, considering what he’s been through.
The signs are always there, but don’t waste time on the bad ones. How ironic because I’m starting to believe that I’ve been the one throwing obstacles in my path all along.
My apartment.
Honestly, I should have never moved here. The apartment always had more space than I needed for just me.
My job.
I could have left when I lost the last promotion, but I was determined to prove myself like I hadn’t already in the previous five years. I can’t let my boss dictate my career prospects anymore.
My . . . Jackson.
Is he mine?
I’ve worked so hard to convince myself that we’re no good for each other on a more permanent basis, but I can’t believe that line of thinking. Jackson feels too good to be bad for me.
Inside my apartment, I rip open the plastic bag and pull out the two containers of food before grabbing a spoon from the drawer. I could be polite and pour my soup into a bowl, but who am I trying to impress? No one anymore.
I move to the couch with my soup and dumplings, getting comfortable, but the handbags I have lined up against the hall wall waiting to be photographed, priced, and uploaded for sale make me feel guilty for taking even a minute to myself.
No one’s going to save me but myself, and I’m finally accepting that I’ll be moving. Where will I go? Who knows? I’ll find something, even if I have to sleep in Tealey’s or Cammie’s spare room for a while.
The thought makes me wince. It’s hard to wrap my mind around a lifestyle that involves thinking about money, or that doesn’t include spontaneous weekends away, or buying something simply because I want it. Insult to injury, now I have to add begging my friends to let me scrounge off them.
My belongings—purses, jewelry, furniture, and clothes—have always defined who I am, and shopping gave me a purpose. It’s where I developed my keen sense of style that will serve me in the art world. But that’s not all I am.
Nice things made me feel beautiful, or at least that’s what I was told to feel. Luxury items made me important in circles that mattered once upon a time. They don’t anymore. It’s just so hard to part from those lingering feelings and thoughts that have embedded themselves deep inside me.
The thought of parting with my stuff has my chest tightening. I love it all. It’s all I’ve had to take care of throughout my life, and it feels like I’m losing a part of my identity. Since my small art collection will never enter the equation if I can help it, that leaves one burning question in regard to everything else. What’s more important?
Save what used to define me, or do I discover the woman I am now?
I know the answer. Even if I don’t like the decision I have to make.
You know what I do like?
Jackson St. James.
I wonder if texting him tonight is too soon?
11
Marlow
I want to have sex.
I send the text before I have a chance to delete it, and then gulp down the rest of my red wine. In the past four days, I’ve discovered it’s not about living without sex. It’s about living without having sex with Jackson. And him in general.
Of course, he’d probably get a good chuckle that I’m already missing him only twenty-four hours later . . . what can I say? I find him entertaining in many ways.
I’m not even horny.
Well . . . I am, but I can live with those cravings. I can even satisfy them battery-style. Jackson St. James is a great lover, and those skills should never be discounted. My insides flutter from the memory of his hands on me, the feel of him inside me, and the look on his face—something caught between devouring and savoring.
I appreciate both on him.
He takes his time and puts his attention into pleasing me, sexually speaking that is. He’s into it, so into me when we’re together like that as if no one else exists, time doesn’t matter, and tomorrow is a world away.
Every inch of me is covered with kisses, and my body’s drained of each wave of new sensation when released. I also like the way he kisses behind my ear, so that’s a bonus.
What can I say? I’m a simple girl with simple needs.
And let’s face the facts. The man turns me on.
I lie back on the couch, staring up at my phone screen. I have plenty of offers and a phone full of messages inviting me out tonight. I could go to the ballet with Steven or a jazz bar with Javier. Mr. Casteleone would love to discuss his art collection over dinner at one of the most exclusive dinner clubs in the city. Even Chuck from receiving asked me to a movie.
Wining and dining have always drawn me in. Mixing and mingling in high society or even a cozy wine bar on the Upper West Side has the makings of a good night.
But I don’t want wine or food. I want Jackson.
That’s been my issue for a while now. Sure, we said we could date others when our proposition first came into play, but that ended not long after. At least for me, it did.
I didn’t use to ask him if he was still dating because I was afraid of the answer. But if I had to bet my life on it, I feel confident we’re in the same boat these days.
I’m not naïve enough to think sex and relationships are mutually exclusive. I’ve actually been a proponent of proving it’s the opposite. It’s entirely possible to have one without the other. We did that for years prior to hooking up. Neither of us has ever claimed to be angels.
But the comfort and encouragement he gave me to take care of my business has kept me warm all day. I can’t imagine dating anyone else at this stage.
Holding my phone in my hand, I’m disappointed that he hasn’t texted me back yet.
I remind myself that he has business to take care of as well.
Easier said than done because despite all the stuff I should be doing, I can’t stop thinking about him.
I start to text again, but a message pops up first: Wrong number.
Oh, God! I sit forward, mortified, and double-check the number. Please tell me I didn’t send an I want to have sex text to a stranger. I see his name above the messages. Oh, thank God! I text: You’re a jerk, St. James.
He’s quick to return a message this time: Do you always tell jerks you want to have sex with them?
I type: Apparently.
Jackson: What’s the plan for getting you sexed? You need a wingman at a bar, or maybe a hookup to the club tonight. My password to watch porn? What do you need? Like the insurance, I’m there.
I slide lower on the cushion, kicking my feet up on the arm of the white leather sofa. Me: You’d help me pick up another man to have sex with?
Jackson: Fuck no. No other man is coming near you.
Why is it such a turn-on when he gets possessive? There’s just something so sexy when Jackson’s territorial instincts kick in. Me: But you just offered.
Jackson: Yeah, fuck that. Sexing you up is my job.
Me: You’re hired. When can you start?
A knock on my door has me bolting upright. I type: Hold on. Someone’s here.
Jackson: A little late, don’t you think?
I hurry across the apartment and lift onto the balls of my feet to peek through the peephole.
The smirk.
The deep-blue eyes.
And the little tousle of hair that’s fallen over his forehead.
Before I open the door, I playfully ask, “Who is it?” but also start unlocking the bolts in my excitement to see Jackson again.
“The Big Bad Wolf.”
I might have once said I didn’t believe in fairy tales. “My grandmother’s not home.” I swing the door wide open, and add, “But I am. Will I do?”
He eyes me from head to toe and back again, his tongue dipping out to wet his lower lip. I hold the door a little firmer as the sight of that tongue teasing me has my legs weakening under me.
“You’ll more than do, Marché.” Rushing in, he takes me by the waist and lifts me into the air. I wrap my legs around his waist and secure my arms around his neck. Our lips crash together, and then he pins me to the wall. A harsh breath is sucked in before a wry grin appears. “Why do you have to be so damn tempting?”
I lick my lips and find myself taking a deeper breath—the heat, the proximity, the man. I gulp and then shake my head. “I don’t know what to say to that, Jackson.”
He cups my cheek. “It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything. You just have to—”
“Kiss me.”
Our mouths come together again in a flood of passion as his need presses hard against me. I tighten myself around him, wanting to feel this again, needing him, and wanting all of this, all of us again like we’ve always been.
When our lips part, Jackson dips his head to the side with my body, and whole being, still safe in his arms. He says, “You always did have the prettiest eyes.”
I get compliments on my looks all the time. So I’m not sure why my cheeks are suddenly heating under his gaze other than this compliment feels different coming from him. It’s as if he’s always felt this way but never shared before.
“Thank you,” I whisper, not having to pretend to act shy at all. I feel it for the first time, making me realize it matters what he thinks of me.
Kissing the corner of my mouth and then the middle of my lips, he has me melting between him and the wall, and then kissing him right back. Seconds pass before our mouths open, and our tongues begin to tangle again. He moves to my neck, leaving a surge of goose bumps in the wake.
His jaw is rough to the touch of my lips, but I kiss him, dragging myself across him to feel the burn of our connection. Pushing the tip of my nose against the shell of his ear, I whisper, “Why are we still out here when we could be in the bedroom?”
“I’m starting to think you only want me for my body.”
“Is that a problem?” I grin and bat my eyelashes.
A rogue grin glides into place. “Fuck no, it’s not.” He kisses my neck, and when I tilt back to give him more access, he kisses along my jaw. “I need to tell you something, though.” He slides his tongue over my skin and then blows, causing pebbles to rise in reaction.
“Yes,” I reply through unrestrained breaths.
“I’m going to keep kissing you. Now that I’ve had a taste, there’s no way I’m going back.”
“I’d already thrown that rule out the window.” I tighten my hold around him but smile because—Gah—he’s amazing. Not just his mouth, though that’s pretty magical, but the whole man. “Because I wouldn’t want it any other way.”
We’ve already crossed so many boundaries that there are no assets left to protect, except for maybe our hearts. But who cares when I have this incredible man carrying me into the bedroom?
He tosses me on the bed, leaving me laughing while he tugs his shirt off over his head. Kicking off his shoes, he starts on his dress pants.
“In a hurry there, cowboy?” I ask, propped up on my elbows and shamelessly watching him undress.
“Abso-fucking-lutely. I’ve been thinking about you all night,” he replies with a wink.
“Flattery will get you everywhere.”
“Good.” His pants drop to the floor, and he rips off his socks. Crawling over me on the bed, he kisses my mouth once more, and says, “Because I plan to be everywhere on this body of yours.” Kissing my temple, he whispers, “Even in your head. My name is all you’ll remember when I’m through with you tonight.”
My body shivers under his delicious threat, and I press my palm flat against his chest. No strength is needed when I push him to his back. He goes willingly and then holds me by the hips when I mount him.
With his hand slipping into my hair at the back of my head, he brings me down for another kiss that deepens quickly. My lids are closed as I begin a sweet surrender to him. But then he tilts me to the side and starts on my neck again. “Why are you still dressed?”
Reveling in his attention to detail, I smile with my eyes still closed. “I was just thinking the same.”
I torture myself by forcing distance between us, knowing the reward will come shortly if I’m quick. Getting off the bed, I start tugging my workout pants down my legs and step out of them.
Jackson moves up the bed and sits like a king on a throne with his back against the headboard watching me. I’m comfortable being naked in front of him and letting him admire me, but that look on his face has me squirming in anticipation to return to him.
When he licks his lips, I lick mine.
He rubs his hand over his erection, and I slip mine under the baggy T-shirt I was wearing to paint in. Two can tease. Unclasping my bra in the back, I slip it off through the sleeves, leaving the shirt to hide most of my torso.
His breaths lie heavy in his chest, the sound of each one becoming an aphrodisiac to my ears. “Take it off, sweetheart,” he commands without remorse. Suddenly, the nickname doesn’t bother me anymore.
The cotton rubs against my nipples, and I bite my lip as my body awakens for him. The look in his eyes makes me think I’m dancing the tango with the devil himself. God, I’m so ready to sin with him.
I drop the shirt to the floor and then crawl back onto the bed. Taking hold of the cotton wrapped around his thighs, I say, “You won’t be needing these either.” I pull his boxer briefs down and toss them over my shoulder. Repositioning myself, I hover over him and whisper, “You know what we really don’t need?”
“What’s that?”
“I’m on the pill. What if . . .?”
Sexually, we’ve been exclusive since we started being together last summer, so I don’t have doubts about our history. We took tests a long time ago.
With confidence in spades, he doesn’t whisper, he growls, “You want to ride my bare cock?”
I seat myself above just the thought turning me on as the tip teases my entrance. “I want you. I want to feel all of you. And since we’re breaking the rules—” I sink down and start rocking.
A gasp escapes me when I’m lifted by the hips and brought down over his thick length. The pleasure buries the pain of the stretch he induces, both of us moaning in unison as my head dips back from the sudden intensity.
I lean forward, leveraging my hands on his chest. The sight of his pleasure is caught in his face. He closes his mouth and licks his lips again. “You’re gonna be the fucking death of me.”
“Is there a sweeter way to die than in pure ecstasy?”
He grins, sitting forward as I lift and fall over him again and again. As he weaves his fingers into my hair, there’s no fighting against his strength as he brings me in for a kiss. Our bodies slow, and each inch becomes achingly delicious.
With our mouths pressed together, he swallows every one of my breaths, leaving me panting. We rip apart, and I fuck him as he fucks me with the sound of our slick bodies engulfing me.
As he stares into my eyes, he’s a man with a hunger only I can satisfy. Our bodies move in tandem together and smoothly apart again. His hands move to my breasts and squeeze before one goes lower to slip between us and slide the tip of his fingers through my lower lips.
As I ride him, our lips reconnect, our bodies coming together—sliding, grinding, thrusting—until his finger finds and then teases the spot that makes me sing his name as it slips from the tip of my tongue.
