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But that’s not it. I have desires. I get turned on, and I have fantasies—about men.
I just can’t enact themwithmen. I can’t be intimate, or even bring myself to last through a single kiss without losing my shit and having a freak out. All because of the motherfucker who destroyed me when I was barely a teenager.
Except, something’s different. The closer Jackson leans, and the more his sinful words and heated breath teases over my skin…
The more excited I get.
The more caged in by him I become, the more I feel pure liquid desire pooling in my core.
Not coldness. Not stiffness. Not my body and my mind shutting everything out until the date who just tried to kiss me awkwardly pulls away to ask if I’m having a stroke or if I’m about to throw up.
There’s none of that right now. For the very first time in my life, a man is pulling closer to me, and wanting me…
And I’m wanting him back.
Horribly.
I shiver, biting back the whimper that desperately tries to tumble from my lips. Maybe it’s the sheer power of him. Or that goddamn dark energy surrounding him. There’s a part of me that still wants to slap him and call him a pig.
But there’s no revulsion. No chilling effect. I might want to tell him to fuck off, but I know damn well if and when I did that, my words would be laced with desire and lust.
And he’d see right fucking through them.
Instead, I stand there gasping, my breath coming in choked whimpers as his mouth brushes my ear. My eyes roll back, and tendrils of fire sizzle through my entire body.
Jackson’s hand suddenly slides over my hip. And for one second, I get one flash of naked fear. One single glimpse of the cold, arresting, paralyzing terror that’s happened every single time a boy—and it’s only ever been a boy, never a man, like him—has tried to touch me, even innocently, since that night those years ago.
Since the night the real devil—not the charming one in front me, but the real, actual devil who my mother let in—came into my room.
But this time, somethings different from any other time since that night. Jackson’s hand—a strong, firm powerful man’s hand—doesn’t touch me lightly. His grip tightens. His fingers dig into my flesh, and one of them traces slowly and deliberately over the thin strip of naked skin between the hem of my shirt and the lace of my panties.
And for the very first time ever since that night, another person’s hand on me doesn’t turn me to cold stone. This time, there’s only fire, and it warms and cracks the ice around that part of my soul until the cold edge of fear rips away.
And something hot, fierce, and forbidden rushes through my core.
Something that aches for more.
“Pretty sure I had dreams about you last night,” he rasps darkly into my ear.
His finger strokes my skin, lazily tracing back until he hits the small of my back. I shiver, feeling his palm rest against my skin as one finger lazily dips under the lace to stroke the very top of the cleft of my ass.
I can’t breathe. I can’t think. All I can do is stand here and slowly melt into a fuckingpuddle. Unable to talk but wanting to tell him to take everything—wanting to tell him to do whatever he wants to me.
Because in this one insane moment, all I want is everything with his man.
“Now comes the important choice,” Jackson growls deeply, that honeyed, whiskey-soaked, entirely-too-sexy accented voice of his teasing every fantasy in my head.
His hand strokes across my hip, slowly moving to the front as my whole world turns to fire.
“What…”
I can’t talk. Why am I even trying to talk?
His hand slowly moves up my side, sliding up under my t-shirt and making my skin prickle in heat. He traces up each bump of my ribs, higher and higher until the edge of his thumb brushes the very side of my breast.
I moan, my eyes rolling back, my throat tightening as his breath washes over my ear, teasing me. His hand twists, and when he cups my breast fully, I absolutely melt.
His touch brushes across my nipple before he takes the throbbing little bud between a thumb and finger and pinches.
