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Jackson’s hand—the one cupping my cheek—slides into my hair, gripping the strands and anchoring there. His thumb rests against the edge of my jaw, and he applies the tiniest bit of pressure. As if he’s making a silent request for me to tip back farther and open wider for him, without breaking the intensity of the kiss.
So I do.
He groans into my mouth, the sound low and primal.
His other hand eases down my side and rests on my hip. His fingertips dig into the fleshy part of my ass and he rocks into me. And for the very first time, I feel him.
I’m relieved I’m not the only one so affected by this kiss.
If we were sitting, or even lying down, and I wasn’t wearing a floor-length gown, I’m one hundred percent sure that I would be straddling his lap, grinding up on him shamelessly. I can count the number of times I’ve been that worked up on one hand.
All I drank tonight was sparkling water. I needed a clear head, and my lack of sleep over the past few nights would have been exacerbated by even the smallest amount of alcohol.
I grip the lapels of his tux and roll my hips, wishing that all these layers of clothing could magically disappear.
“Whoa! Wow. Yup. Okay. Wasn’t expecting that.” Avery’s shocked voice shatters the spell, and I tear my mouth from Jackson’s. The hand in my hair loosens, but the one on my hip stays where it is, keeping our lower halves connected.
He backs up just enough that my eyes don’t cross when I look up at his gorgeous, flushed face. “That was absolutely worth the wait,” he murmurs.
“Oh hell yes! I so called this! Avery, you owe me a hundred bucks!” Harley shrieks.
Jackson arches a brow, and I push on his chest. It’s either that or I pretend that my sisters aren’t in the room and we go back to making out. I’ll be honest, I consider that a viable option for a second or two.
“Could you not have just backed out slowly and quietly?” I ask my sisters, my face heating with embarrassment.
“Obviously the answer to that is no, otherwise we would have done that in the first place,” Harley says with a smile. “Hi, Jackson. Thank you for making me a hundred dollars richer and also for using Spark House for this event, and for digging on London. We owe you. I make great cookies if you want to put in a request.”
The corner of Jackson’s mouth twitches, and his fingers brush my hip. “You’re welcome, and I love oatmeal raisin.”
“Ah, I knew you were a good egg.”
He turns back to me. Taking my hand in his, he lifts it to his lips with a wink. “Until tomorrow.”
He nods to my sisters, who smile and wave at him like a pair of overly enthusiastic teens at a boy band concert, and then he’s off down the hall, one hand in his pocket, the other at his lips. None of us say anything until the sound of his footsteps fade out. As soon as the ding of the elevator filters down the hall, Harley squeals and rushes over, pulling me into a huge, rib-crushing hug.
“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. I just knew this was going to happen!” She releases me and steps back, jumping around like a toddler at Disney. “That was your first kiss, wasn’t it? It looked so intense!”
“It looked like you two were about thirty seconds away from getting naked on the floor,” Avery deadpans with a smile.
I touch my lips, the memory of his on mine making them tingle. “He’s taking me out for dinner tomorrow night.”
“I vote you go home with him,” Harley says.
“Who says he’ll invite me back to his place?” I sincerely hope he does. He bought a house in Denver recently, but I’ve yet to see it. He obviously could have opted to stay there during the event, but he wanted to be able to mingle with the guests.
My sisters look at each other and then me as if I have two heads. “Uh, if that kiss is anything to go by, you’ll be lucky to make it through the main course without tearing each other’s clothes off.”
16
FAN THE FLAMES
LONDON
Jackson and I end up spending the majority of the following day together. He helps with takedown, which is mostly tackled by our weekend employees, and once the guests have departed, we sit in the office and manage emails—me on my desktop and him on his laptop. It’s strangely natural. It’s also fraught with sexual tension because we’re sitting in the same room where he kissed me last night.
“I already have half a dozen emails from guests wanting to book us for events, and Selene emailed this morning to say that Moorehead Media is very interested in sponsoring Spark House, and there’s a florist who would like to partner with us,” I tell him as yet another email alert hits my inbox.
