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“Thank you,” she says after a pause. “That means a lot.”
We drive on in silence, a thousand unspoken truths hovering in the air between us. Or maybe I’m imagining that, wishing things into reality that don’t exist.
She’s given me no indication she feels the same.
Except for the smell of her body, alluring beneath her perfume.
And as crazy as it sounds – and it’s totally bat-shit – I find myself thinking that her womb, tangy, hot, and hungry, is telling me to claim her, claim her hard, until her young body is brimming with my seed.
Pulling into the party, toward the red carpet and the legions of photographers, I tell myself to calm down.
Even if I know it’s impossible.
Chapter Nine
Jessie
“Are you okay?” Jaxon asks as we take our seats for dinner.
I feel like my head is spinning. I’ve heard that phrase so many times – mostly with my nose buried in a book in the library, avoiding the mayhem of high school – but I’ve never felt it before.
Or maybe it’s more like the entire room is spinning around and around, threatening to unbalance me.
We’ve spent the last thirty minutes circulating the party. Luckily I didn’t have to say much, just stand next to Jaxon and smile as genuinely as I could. But there were moments when these suited and suave businesspeople asked me questions, and I had to fumble for an answer.
It was like I was receding to the back of my mind, disappearing into my anxiety so I didn’t have to listen to my own words. Which is a pretty big freaking problem because now I’m not really sure if I’ve made a fool of myself or not.
“Jessie?” Jaxon’s voice is firm above the soft jazz which permeates the function hall.
I force myself to nod, swallowing down a big lump of you-can’t-do-this nervousness. “Yes, sorry. I’m fine.”
“You’re doing great,” he says.
My gaze snaps to him, and then across the vast party. The ceilings are high and a giant chandelier hangs, so large it makes me wonder how it can possibly stay up there without falling down. Which is fitting, because that’s exactly how I feel.
How long before I can’t take this anymore and I fall down?
“Really?” I ask.
We’re sitting at a small table in the far corner of the room, just the two of us. Tables are dotted all around us, some seating two people or more, with glittering silverware laid out and candles flickering in the center. It almost feels romantic, but I push that silly idea far away, cautioning myself not to let my fantasies infiltrate reality.
“Really,” he says, with that same unwavering confidence in his tone.
His eyes brighten and his lips twitch into a near smile. But there’s still that slight tremor in his expression as if every second he’s holding back a tsunami of criticism, but he’s too courteous to give it voice.
Or maybe he’s holding himself back from you, a crazy voice whispers inside of my head. Maybe he can barely contain himself because he wants you.
I almost shake my head, but then I realize how weird that would seem. It’s one thing to sound slightly awkward when I’m talking to these intimidating businessmen and women, but quite another to sit here and start shaking my head like a loon.
“I feel like I’ve jumbled up my words every time I try to talk.”
“Look around, Jessie.”
I slide my gaze from one side of the room to the other, wondering what he means. But it’s just a large mood lit room, the chandelier twinkling, jazz playing, and – beneath that – people talking softly and with the occasional clink-clink of cutlery.
“What am I looking for?” I ask.
“Well…”
He shuffles in his chair, laying his forearms on the table. My eyes can’t help but be drawn to the way his fists clench, confirming my suspicions that he’s holding something back, even if I’m not exactly sure what it is.
Lust? Anger? Something completely unrelated?
“Do you see anybody staring at you? Do you hear anybody laughing at you?”
High school must’ve made me more paranoid than I thought, because I actually check, studying the patrons as if I’m going to find an army of them with their fingers pointed at me, or their hands covering their mouths as they whisper viciously about me.
“No,” I admit.
“No,” he agrees gruffly. “What are they doing?”
People are talking. One older man leans over to his wife and kisses her tenderly on the cheek. I stare at the exchange, my whole body feeling like it’s being clamped by a giant hand, as I think about what it would feel like if Jaxon did the same to me.
If he just completely randomly leaned across and laid a loving kiss on my cheek. The sensation feels crazily real, a phantom brush tingling against my skin.
“They’re just talking,” I murmur. “They’re…”
