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I know forced trust during sex. I know it well, but this is about so much more than sex. And this is Jax, not York. I trust Jax, at least in this intimate way. I trust this man I have only known a few days, a man who has reason to hurt me, more than I did my fiancé. That means something, and later, later, maybe I’ll tell myself not to make it mean too much, but it does. Right now, it does. I lean back, and I push against him as I do. He grips my hip and thrusts, his heated gaze raking over my breasts as they sway with our bodies. And it takes nothing, nothing to push me to the edge. I shatter.
“Jax,” I breathe out, and he folds me into him again, holding me close, my breasts to his chest, my body quaking. And then his body is shuddering.
We hold each other, ride out the wave of pleasure and then we still hold each other. Jax doesn’t put me down right there. He walks and doesn’t stop until we’re at a shower door. Only then does he ease me to the ground, parting our bodies and opening the door to turn on the water. I grab a towel and clean up, but my mind is all over the place. No, really, one place: why would Jax’s brother kill himself? I have questions about this, about him. So many questions and so many thoughts. Maybe Jax didn’t really know him. Maybe Jax doesn’t want to admit he wasn’t stable. Maybe my family pushed him until he could be pushed no more.
Jax catches my arm and I toss the towel down, letting him turn me to him. “Come,” he says, guiding me into the shower, and once we’re there, warm water streaming over us, he folds me close. He feels safe. He feels right when there is so much wrong about how we came together. I tilt my chin up and I meet his stare, his blue eyes piercing. I want to ask him if he’s my enemy, but I don’t. I don’t ask. He’ll tell me that we’re not. He’ll mean it too if he says it, I believe that. Jax told me the truth out there in the living room, but truth or not, my family has a way of taking people and turning them inside out. I wonder if that’s what they did to his brother. I wonder if we’re next.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Emma…
We laugh.
Out of nowhere.
In the intensity of all that has passed between us the past half hour, Jax and I stand there under that water, jagged emotions cutting left and right, and we laugh. “Why are you laughing?” I ask.
“Because you’re laughing.” His lips, those beautiful lips that I know can be both brutal and tender, curve and he brushes my hair from my face. “Why are you laughing?”
“Because you’re laughing.” My stomach chooses that moment to growl, and we laugh all over again.
“I’m all about satisfying your hunger, sweetheart,” he whispers. “Let’s get finished up and grab some food on the way to your place. Or better yet, let’s order delivery to meet us there. Then I have you to myself the rest of the day and night.”
This is the second time he’s made that statement and I find it pleases me just as much this time as last. I don’t mean to compare him to York, but it’s hard not to. A Sunday with York was about York. This doesn’t feel like it’s about Jax. It feels like it’s about us.
“I like that idea,” I say, shoving aside all the niggling warnings about enemies destined to burn and hurt each other. We were burned and hurt when we found each other, which is exactly why I think—I think we need each other.
The remainder of our shower is short, but we spend it smiling and laughing, setting aside families and tragedies. It’s like the breath we both need to take and so we do, now, here, together. A few minutes later I’m dressed in black jeans and a hot pink T-shirt, putting on make-up, when Jax steps to my side in faded jeans and a brown North Whiskey T-shirt. He proceeds to watch me do my make-up.
“Don’t you need to shave or something?”
He runs his hands over his thick stubble. “I like it this way.” He catches my arm and pulls me to him. “And I like you like this.”
“Like this?”
“Yes. Like this. Just like this.”
“Okay but only one of my eyes has eye shadow on it right now,” I say, deciding I should have asked for some private time to dress. The man is gorgeous, and I’m presently a mess.
“You’re beautiful, even with one pink eye.”
I laugh but he doesn’t, his mood shifting, the air thickening. “Why the fuck do you have to be a Knight?” His voice is low, guttural, tormented.
