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Like. A suit.
Dark slacks, a button-down shirt with the collar sexily open and exposing his lickable throat. A jacket. A shiny black belt and shoes to match. He’s holding a bouquet of red roses and the blooms are open the perfect amount.
“Allison.” His lips curve at the corner, moving his freshly trimmed facial hair in the most tantalizing way. His hair is styled back, the longish bits smooth against his head, but one stubborn lock falls over his forehead when he leans down to kiss me hello.
The gentle kiss is paired with him cupping my elbow and then a full-body scan of the red slip of a dress I slinked to do the door wearing. It’s sleeveless, with straps crisscrossing at my back and a skirt that’s both short and full, kicking out whenever the slightest breeze catches it.
And I can tell by the twinkle in Jackson’s eyes that he approves of the choice.
“I’m not hungry for food anymore,” he tells me. Then he clears his throat and gestures to the kitchen. “Want me to put these in water?”
“Sure.” I turn and we walk down the hallway, and I’m acutely aware of his presence. The sound of his steps in his dressy shoes. The shift of his suit jacket against his crisp ironed shirt.
Did he iron that shirt?
I lapse into a fantasy of him standing shirtless with a hot iron, sweeping it over the wrinkles in the material before giving it a shake and shrugging it over his big shoulders.
Purr.Domestic Jax is the best fantasy ever.
I hand over a crystal vase. “Is this big enough?”
“Should do it.” He takes care of the flowers for me, utilizing kitchen shears to trim the stems at an angle and arranging them in a vase filled halfway with water. I watch his capable hands handle the delicate flowers, witness the deep concentration on his face. Suddenly, I’m not hungry for food, either. I’m hungry for him.
“Our reservations are—”
I grab the lapels of his jacket and yank his mouth to mine, cutting off his words. He recovers quickly and follows my lead, scooping me against him and kissing the life out of me.
His hand travels to my butt and he cups the cheeks before slipping under the dress and discovering the tiny scrap of a thong beneath it.
A rough, male groan comes from his throat and I press my breasts against his chest as something hard and mouthwatering stirs below his belt.
His tongue tangles with mine as we back through the kitchen. His hand catches the countertop to keep me from colliding with it as he deepens our kiss. He’s always looking out for me.
I wreck his carefully styled hair with my careless fingers, inhaling the clean leather-citrus cologne and soapy scent of him. It’s so uniquely Jackson that every time I smell it in the future I know I’ll think of him.
He cups my ass and lifts, depositing me on the counter and sweeping his hands over my ribs to hold my breasts. Then his mouth is moving down my throat, over my collarbone. I tilt my head back, letting him devour me, my hair ticking down my back as it slides over my shoulders.
He fumbles with my dress for a few futile seconds before reaching for the kitchen shears and snipping one of the straps in half. I gasp, shocked, but his grin beckons me to join him in this game.
And so I do.
He tosses the shears aside and yanks down my dress, pulling my nipple deep into his mouth as I wrap my legs around his waist and hug him closer. He’s between my thighs, that insistent part of him brushing my dampening panties. He moves to my other breast, leaving a trail of whisker burn over my sensitized skin.
“Jax.” I don’t even know what was going to follow that. I just needed to say his name aloud. Remind myself that this is what love should feel like. This is what I’ve been missing during a ten-year drought. Loving Jax.
“Please,” I try again, but I don’t have to explain. He knows what I’m begging for. He unbuckles his belt and opens his pants. He pulls his cock out, heavy and thick, and gives it one long, slow stroke. It’s the most beautiful one I’ve ever seen. Seriously. It’s a work of art.
Untangling my legs from his waist, I push on his chest, amused when his eyebrows lower in confusion.
“I need a taste of that,” I tell him. “More than you know.”
His eyes go dark with want. So much of it, I feel powerful.
“You do?” His voice is slow and unsure. He hasn’t wrapped his head around that offer for one very good reason.
We’ve never done that together.
I was a good girl and had it in my head that blowing him was a thing that dirty girls did. I don’t believe that any longer, by the way. I believe it’s one of the most romantic acts a couple can share—especially for him. I hadn’t thought about us not doing that until now. He’s concerned with taking care of me, and he’s probably assumed I’m the same Allie from when we were in college. Back when there were lines drawn and that was one of them.
“Couch,” I instruct, pointing to the adjoining living room. Newfound power surges through my limbs.
He lifts me into his arms and races to the adjoining room so quickly I burst into a fit of laughter.
By the time we’re on the couch with me on his lap, I’ve sobered. Another long bout of kissing and I’m pushing him to his back and undoing the buttons on his shirt one at a time.
He sucks in a tortured breath as I kiss my way down his beautiful, bare chest. Then I place one more kiss under his belly button, wrap my hand around his penis and send him a flirty wink.
