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“Right.” Paul nods stiffly and nods, making sure to nab my so-called lunch offering before leaving. I swear he even slams the door a little behind him.
Men.
I allow myself a brief moment to release some frustration—otherwise known as silently screaming at the ceiling—before I compose myself, focusing on the task at hand.
Or I try to, at least.
I’ve barely gotten to my feet, papers in hand, when I’m interrupted by my phone ringing and promptly sent back to my ass.
Jackson.
Jackson is calling me.
I know because in a moment of weakness after the funeral, I snuck his contact from Pen’s phone. I figured I’d shoot him a text. Check in. I would’ve saved myself a whole lot of trouble if I had instead of turning up at his doorstep.
I don’t want to answer. I really don't want to talk to him. Even thinking of him makes my skin itch with embarrassment, picturing that look on his face when he yelled at me.
Like he’d just made the worst mistake of his life.
Rolling my shoulders back, I decline the call. Barely a minute passes before a text comes through.
Jackson: Answer the phone, Luna.
Bossy little shit.
I ignore the text, making sure it comes up as read though because I'm petty like that. Thirty seconds later and another call comes through, and I ignore that too. The moment it rings out, another text dings.
Jackson: sweetheart please. I just wanna talk to you.
Goddamn it. Fuckingsweetheart.
The next time he tries, I give in with a sigh and a snapped, “What?”
No greeting, just a rushed, slightly panicked. “Are you home?”
“Nope.”
“When will you be home?”
“I don't know.” A lie. A couple of hours, tops.
“Tonight?”
“I don't know.” Another lie; I plan to be home all night.
“Lu,” he laughs my name, annoyingly unperturbed by my snippiness. “please. I need to talk to you.”
“We're talking now.”
He kisses his teeth, and it's genuinely infuriating how the smallest of noises can have me squirming in my seat. “In person. I wanna see you.”
I wanna see you.
A brief image of the last time he said that flashes through my mind. When he had his fingers inside of me, a hand bracketing my throat, his hard cock grinding against me, lips and teeth leaving marks everywhere. Marks that are still there, a filthy reminder.
I shake that picture away real quick, crossing my legs to ease the quick-growing ache between them, resisting the urge to rub at the healing purple bruises still marring my chest.
Something in my gut tells me he must be thinking the same thing because when he speaks again his voice has got that husky quality, the one that sends a rush up my spine. “I'm coming over tonight.”
