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I lift my lashes, my eyes lock with his and the truth sears me to the bone: no one has ever triggered a spark in me as powerful as this. No one but him.
And that realisation should have me running, not pushing for more. Because this will never have a future. I know that as much as I know he wants me now.
Whatever the demons that haunt him, they will always put a stop to anything more. He’s a self-professed bachelor and I may be confident in my appeal, but I’m not so naive as to think I can break him.
No matter how much I long to.
* * *
Do you mean the sex, Jackson?
Sex—sex with Cait.
Fuck.
She’s wicked. Wicked, seductive and too damned attractive for her own good.
A tiny bundle of carefree fun... Only Cait’s eyes have lost their usual carefree sheen, their striking ring of blue as they darken and intensify, projecting a wildness that my body is only too willing to respond to.
I should have ended this after the very first song. The proximity, the closeness, the whole fucking dance. All I had to do was one track. A tick in the dutiful Best Man box.
And run.
Hell, the second I caught sight of her at the entrance to the aisle this morning I should have shut my body down and mentally run, because I knew what trouble lay ahead.
Yes, the bride was stunning, Coco was perfect in every way, but Caitlin—fucking Caitlin. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t tear my eyes away. She is my every fantasy. The reason I fuck my fist too often to admit and why I don’t ever go there. Not with her. Never with her.
But there she was. Her flaming red hair, usually free and wild, tied back at her nape, exposing her shoulders and the flimsy shoestring straps that hold her dress in place. The presence of a bra, something to debate, to torment myself over. I do it now, just as I did this morning, my body overheating as she stepped ever closer, provoking me with all her grace and poise. The delicate green silk of her floor-length dress sets off her auburn hair and clinging to her every curve, the split to her thigh teasing with a hint of leg. The dipped V meets with a slash of tartan at her waist, unveiling the freckles that run a teasing path down. Freckles that I stared at for far too long as she walked up the aisle, but snapping my eyes up only led me straight into hers.
And that look.
I close my eyes and squeeze the image out. I switch direction on the dancefloor out of time and cause her to stumble. She leans into me further and I tighten my grip.
Like that’s going to help.
‘Come on, Jackson,’ she coos softly. ‘You know I’m talking sense.’
I refuse to answer. I refuse to even look at her as I scan the room, desperately seeking distraction. But the challenge in her eyes across the aisle and in my arms now, the want, desire, need—the sight is burned into my brain. I continue to see it. I continue to feel the effect of it all the way to my disobeying dick, which wants nothing more than to seek satisfaction for the last six years of denial.
Around us I take in people dancing, talking, laughing but all I really see is her: her body and eyes aglow, enhanced by the intimate lighting of the room, the amber strands that have escaped the twisted knot at her nape and fall over her flushed cheeks. The combination makes me think of a thousand different reasons she could look like that. Every one of them as debauched as me. More debauched than any fun she has offered...
There’s the sex she’s accustomed to, and then there’s sex with me.
Dark, twisted and fucked up.
Never going to happen.
It’s not just how she looks either. It’s how she feels. Her warmth beneath my palms and the way she curves into me, her thighs, her stomach, her breasts gently touching.
She tilts her head back and I can’t resist a glimpse.
Fuck, she’s perfect.
Her cupid’s bow lips flush their own shade of pink and I see the tiny gap between her two front teeth that I’ve wanted to probe with my tongue for so long. Then there’s the easy smile that lights up her face, the room, me. She gives it to me now as she eases herself up my body.
Her lips brush against my ear again and I have to stiffen to stop the teasing tremor that threatens to run through me. Worse still, I know the only reason she can reach so high is because I’ve bowed my head, my body defying my every intent to resist.
‘Come on, Jackson, live a little.’ Her mouth caresses my ear, her breath sweeps inside—fuck. She may as well have tongued the sensitised flesh for what it does to me and now I’m actually relieved that her body is pressed against me, the sporran too. Anything to stop the way my unrestricted erection is free to set up camp under the kilt.
