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If it weren’t so infuriating, Jackson’s distressed hesitancy would be adorable. “You were yelling at me ten minutes ago.”
“You were mad at me ten seconds ago.” I roll my eyes when he starts to object. “Sorry, you werenotmad. My bad.”
My quip earns me no punishment, unfortunately. Just a pained look and, “You’ve been drinking.”
“I had one drink.” A single shot of tequila chugged for liquid courage before I skulked after Jackson, scared yet desperate to rectify my royal fuck-up. I never drink heavily at parties like this; too many dark rooms and hammered, handsy guys lurking. And with Dylan in the building, the need for lucidity only increases; beating the shit out of him, if needed, would prove most difficult with vodka coursing through my veins.
Jackson sighs as he brushes my hair away from my face, both of us ignoring my silly costume halo as it clatters to the ground. “I don’t wanna fuck this up.”
“You are.” I deadpan. “Right now. By not kissing me.”
He laughs, grinning in a way that makes me feel… weird. Incites a flurry of goosebumps. Twists my stomach. Makes me want to fucking twirl my hair and giggle.
I blame it on being horny. He’s got me all worked up and now he won’t deliver, that’s it. I've been borderline edged and I'm feeling needy. I need release.
And I'm not going to beg him for it. My pride won’t let me.
Pasting on a half-hearted smirk, I step away, rolling my shoulders like that might eliminate the odd feeling clinging to my skin. “Fine,“ I purr in what I hope is an indifferent tone. With a shrug, I gesture for Jackson to get out of my way, and he does, still frowning. “If you won't fuck me, I'll go find someone who will.”
I barely manage to open the door an inch before it’s slammed shut with a surprising force.
“Luna,” Jackson rasps, warning tone sending a shiver down my spine and a rush of heat between my thighs. “Don't.”
Instinctively, I lean back into him, relishing in the certain kind of dark wickedness rolling off him in waves, simultaneously warming my blood and sending chills through me. “Don't what?”
“Don't fuck with me.” Rough fingers sweep my hair to one side, exposing skin quickly riddled with goosebumps when he lightly caresses the slope of my neck with his lips. “You're under my roof, sweetheart. No one else is touching you.”
Well, shit.
If I wasn't turned on before, I sure as fuck am now.
“Well, then.” Turning slowly, I quirk a brow. “You better do something to keep me here.”
* * *
He doesn’t.
He wants to, it’s so obvious in his tight grip on my waist and that clenched jaw and the rushed breaths brushing my skin, but he’s holding himself back. Being so damn careful, so damn honorable.
Admirable, yes.
Necessary, absolutely not.
A slow smirk spreads across my face as I rest my hands on Jackson’s chest, the soft material of his t-shirt such a contrast to the tense muscles beneath. Gently but forcefully, I push and, wearing a slightly dazed expression, he indulges me, allows me to walk him backward until his calves hit his bed and he’s forced to sit down.
Jackson watches, rapt, as I shuck his hands from my hips. “You want consent, Jackson?”
He nods stiffly, gaze following my fingers where they slide off the costume wings strapped to my back. His expression turns pained when I finger the hem of my top, and I gotta give it to him; it’s commendable, how he keeps his eyes on my face instead of letting them dip to the lacy fabric revealed when I tug the thin fabric over my head and toss it aside.
Blood rushing in my ears dulls the sound of me unzipping my skirt, the rustle of satin as I shimmy until it hits the floor, leaving me in just underwear and heels. I wonder if he sees my hands shaking, with equal parts anticipation and apprehension, as I brace them high on his thighs, using him for balance as I bend until we’re eye-level.
“I consent.” Jackson’s breath catches in his throat, both hands moving to cover mine. “Please fuck me.”
I think he might choke a little. He definitely groans, a frustrated noise that matches his grip, either prayers or curses muttered beneath his breath. I reckon there’s an equal chance of either, but I don’t get the chance to ask because suddenly, I’m airborne. Then I’m on my back, a plush quilt soft against my bare skin.
What was a surprised yelp quickly morphs into a moan when Jackson’s lips catch mine again without warning, harsher than they were before. Depraved, really. Like he's drowning and I'm his only source of oxygen.
Any earlier hesitation dissipates. Jackson wastes no more time, deft fingers sneaking between me and the bed and making quick work of undoing my bra. I squirm beneath him as he slowly, teasingly, slides the straps down my shoulders before discarding it.
