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I know why he’s saying it. He wants to get my attention. He wants me to open my eyes.
I do. I can’t seem to help it even if halts the momentum of my orgasm.
He’s still fucking me, still holding on to my leg, still poised above me, supported on his other arm, when I open my eyes.
His eyes are focused on my face, never looking anywhere else. “Tell me you want this,” he grits out, his voice stern and demanding the way it often is, but with something else underlying it.
My whole body is shaking with his motion. I reach up to grab his biceps since I need to hold on to something. It feels like every molecule of me is going to fly apart at any moment. “I want this.” My voice is stretched, breathless.
He makes a guttural sound and jerks his head slightly, his nostrils flaring. “Tell me you want me.”
I make a sobbing sound as the words trigger something deep. I scratch lines into the skin of his arms. “I want you.”
He speeds up, pounding into me so hard the bed bangs loudly against the wall. “Tell me who you want.”
“You. Jackson. I want you. Jackson. You. Only you!” The last words come out as a hoarse cry because I come hard on the heels of them.
He’s right after me, biting back a loud, possessive bellow and yanking his cock out just in time to come all over my stomach.
He collapses on top of me, the full weight of him hitting me unexpectedly. I huff in surprise but it isn’t unpleasant. It feels safe.
Safe.
I wrap my arms around him and hold him there, knowing he won’t stay long.
He gasps against my neck for longer than I expect. There might be muttered words in the panting, but they’re not clear enough for me to make out. Then finally with a groan he pushes himself off me and falls down onto the mattress beside me.
My body is wracked with little aftershocks of pleasure, and my lungs are burning from effort. I wipe some of the sweat off my face with the sheet and turn my head to look at him.
He’s looking back at me.
It feels like I’m supposed to say something. Like he’s waiting for me. But I have no idea what I’m capable of saying. So I manage to get out, “That was good.”
He makes a huff of sound. Maybe dry amusement. “Yeah.”
“We should get some sleep.”
“Yeah. Got a long day tomorrow.” He reaches over to turn off the lantern, leaving us in darkness. “Night, Faith.”
“Good night, Jackson.”
We’ve never slept in the same bed before, but I’m tired and sated enough now that the oddness of it doesn’t bother me for long. I drift off to sleep, surrounded by the smell of Jackson on the sheets and on my skin.
I wake up sometime later pressed tightly against his side. I try to roll away, but his arm is holding me in place, and it won’t budge. He’s asleep, so it’s clearly unconscious. It doesn’t matter. I’m comfortable enough, and I feel safe. Taken care of.
I don’t often feel that way, and I don’t want it to end.
So I let myself fall back to sleep in Jackson’s arms.
Surely it’s all right to let myself do so.
Just this once.
