Page 112 of And Now, Back to You

I watch his face change in the muted shadows. How his eyes grow heavy with want. The peek of his tongue at the corner of his mouth. His hand rubs at the middle of his bare chest, like he’s trying to push away whatever is happening inside of him.

But I want to be the one who does that for him. I want to ease that ache.

“You can have it,” I say again. “Whatever it is you want . . . I want it too. I promise.”

His hand inches down his chest toward the hem of his sweatpants. I bet he runs every morning. Or swims, maybe. Something that requires dedication and routine. Something where he can keep pace.

“Are you sure?” he asks, and his hand sinks into his pants. He grips himself with a shuddered breath, his head rolling back along his shoulders. His forearm flexes as he moves and he tips his head forward again so he can watch me while he touches himself.

He looks so good like this, on his knees above me. His hair an absolute mess and his glasses slightly crooked.

“Yes,” I breathe. I turn beneath him, my hands at his sweatpants, urging them down. “But let me see.”

He’s gripping himself so hard it looks like it hurts, but his breath comes faster as I inch his pants down his thighs.

“Oh,” I whisper.

His eyebrows pull together. “What?” he pants.

“Nothing.” I shake my head, then catch my bottom lip between my teeth. “You’re just—you look good.” The smooth, practiced roll of his hand around his thick cock. How he rubs at himself with the two fingers that are still wet from being inside of me. “What do you want me to do?”

Jackson groans and laughs at the same time. “You don’t have to do anything, Delilah.” His eyes grow serious again, pleasure making his mouth twist. “Just let me look at you,” he says.

But I want him to be selfish. I want to make him as mindless as he’s made me. So I let myself fall back into the pillows, my arms above my head. My bra is still twisted around my middle, pushing everything up, my breasts spilling obscenely over the material. I drift my fingertips over them, moaning lightly when a soft bloom of warmth unfurls in my belly. I won’t come again tonight, but I bet I could. Just from watching Jackson like this.

He lets his body curl over mine with a heavy groan, one hand braced against the headboard over my shoulder. The wood creaks as his other hand picks up speed, his knuckles brushing my stomach with every rough stroke. I lean up and press my mouth to the hollow of his throat.

“On me,” I whisper, and he grunts. I drift my fingers between my breasts. Lower, down over the curve of my belly. “It’s what you want, isn’t it?”

He nods, his temple pressed to mine. He feels feverish. So warm and solid above me.

“Yes,” he breathes.

“I want it too.” I press my palms to his sides. “Won’t you give me what I want, Jackson?”

“Fuck,” he whispers and his hand slows down. I feel the blunt press of his thick length against my belly and the smooth, easy friction of Jackson moving against me. Fucking me down into the mattress without fucking me at all. He murmurs nonsense as he chases his relief and I sink my hands into his hair, holding him tight.

When he finally comes, it’s with his teeth bared against the side of my neck, his release warm against my belly. He falls to my side with a huff, his palm flat against the middle of my chest.

We stay there like that, tangled together, our hearts thundering. It isn’t until I shiver again that Jackson leverages himself up on one hand. I watch as he takes careful inventory. My eyes, the curve of my chin. My bare breasts and the mess he’s made of me.

His gaze stays there for a while.

“Feel warmer?” I whisper.

“I don’t know.” Satisfaction hitches one side of his mouth up in a lazy grin. “I can’t really feel my legs, to be honest.”

A loud laugh bursts out of me. Jackson’s grin grows. He pulls his sweatpants back over himself, bashful, but makes no move to clean up the mess across my middle. I bite my lip at the way he keeps staring at it—at me.

He walks his fingers over my shoulders, carefully fixing my bra. His hands brush against me while he does and that little kernel of warmth that’s heavy in my belly thrums wildly. I make a soft sound and Jackson gives me a chastising look.

“Bedtime, troublemaker.”

“Trouble? Me?”

“We’ll be warmer skin to skin,” he mimics, voice feigned in some approximation of mine. It makes me laugh again and he rolls his eyes to the ceiling, slipping from the bed. For a second I’m disappointed, but then I hear the sink in the bathroom. Jackson comes back to me with a wet washcloth, brushing my hands away when I try to take it. He eases it over my belly in gentle swipes, cleaning me off so carefully it makes a lump lodge in my throat. I watch him, curved over me, bare skin and his hair sticking up at odd angles, some pink still clinging to the base of his throat.

Something tender and delicate unfurls beneath my rib cage the longer I watch him touch me—so, so gently.