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I shrug. “Perhaps.”
Jackson rumbles a dark, cold, mirthless laughs.
“No, we are not.”
“I’ll tell you what. You answer a couple of questions, and I’ll go get you as much whiskey as you—”
“Yeah, no, that’s not even a little bit how this is going to happen,” he rasps, making me flinch as he takes a step towards me again.
He towers over me, that dark energy that surrounds him dancing sadistically and seductively across my skin.
“What exactly did you expect in coming here,Melody?”
“I…I…” I stammer, hating that I do.
“You, what, thought you’d ‘rescue me’ from my isolation? Pitch me with an idea for a warm and fuzzy feel-good story about the former rock star ‘finding his voice’ again?”
He grins, making me shiver and take another step back as he advances on me.
“Or maybe, you just wanted a littletaste, eh? That why you’re here with the wet t-shirt contest look?”
He smiles coldly and viciously.
“We can drop the whole ‘gutsy reporter’ thing now if you want. Because if you’re just a fan, as you just said, looking for a little memento?” He shrugs, smirking cruelly.
My brow furrows.
“I’m sorry, where are you even going with that?”
“It starts with you, getting on your knees,” he grunts.
My face goes bright red.
“And ends with me emptying my balls down your pretty throat.”
My skinthrobs. My pulse jangles. I want to—and part of mereallywants to—smack him. Or at the very least, to feel appalled, or completely disgusted, or furious.
Except I’m not.
I’m just…warm.
And tingly.
And pulsing,everywhere.
And that is so very completely unfair.
It’s also completely unfair that I’m utterly at a loss for words. So instead, I just stand there like an idiot, gaping at him, my face red and my eyes wide.
Jackson smirks, folding his arms over his broad chest.
“You’ve got the mouth right; it just needs to be about a foot and a half lower—
“I’d ratherswimback to town.”
There it is: my voice. My armor.Finally.
Jackson lifts a brow.
