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I sit up slowly, eyeing the loot suspiciously. “What did you do?”
“You said you have nothing to wear, right?” Jackson replies all matter-of-factly, like him holding what has to be a couple of grand's worth of stuff is no big deal.
I can't help but blurt, “How the hell do you have so much money?”
Jackson stiffens, and not for the first time with him, I immediately know I’ve fucked up. “What?” I groan. “What did I say?”
With a too-nonchalant shrug, Jackson says, “Money’s a touchy subject.”
Of course it is.
I have a knack for running headfirst into those.
“It's my grandparents’ money,” he continues. “We don't really get along.”
Such limited information yet so quickly, I’m getting the picture that there’s not much family he does get along with.
“I don’tloveusing it.” Jackson joins me on the bed, dropping the bag on my lap and a kiss on my cheek. “But I have more than I need.”
I could play the abnegator and pretend to be too gracious and altruistic to accept but come on. Who am I kidding? I am a simple, simple woman who fucking loves presents.
“Jackson.” I adopt a warning tone when I reach into the bag and pull out a black box, one of those fancy ones tied up with a neat red ribbon. Opening it carefully because the packaging alone is probably worth more than me, a soft gasp escapes me at what I find.
A simple but beautiful satin dress sits folded neatly inside. Pale pink and silky smooth, all thin straps and draped, flowing material. I’ve heard horror stories about receiving terrible presents from boyfriend but this is perfect, so fucking me, and it only gets better when I find a matching mens shirt tucked beneath.
Somewhere between me lifting the dress to see it glimmer in the light, though, and accidentally catching a glimpse of the price tag, the allure dies.
“I can’t wear this.”
“Not really giving you a choice, sweetheart.”
“It’s too expensive.”Waytoo expensive. He said it himself, money is a touchy subject. It obviously makes him uncomfortable and I don’t want to be a source of that when I don’t need to be.
Jackson doesn’t share that same mindset. “It's the dress or the robe, Lu.”
“If you're spending all this money to get me to put out, it's really unnecessary.”
“I know.”
“I don't need a fancy dinner, either.”
“I know that too.” A hand coasts along my thigh, settling high and squeezing. “Maybe I just like knowing the whole time you'll be thinking about me fucking you.”
“Stop teasing if you're not gonna deliver.” It's half a reprimand, half a plea. I don't think I can handle another false start. Tongues and fingers and lips just aren't cutting it anymore. I feel like an addict, constantly chasing a bigger high than the last, and him dangling it right in front of me is downright cruel.
“I told you, sweetheart. I'll stop teasing when you start behaving.” Rough fingers rest on the curve of my neck, stroking the flesh there tenderly, contradicting the roughness of his voice and gaze. “You gonna behave?”
I nod without hesitation, and I get a brush of his lips against mine as a reward.
“Good girl.”
* * *
Dinner lasts a fucking eternity.
I can't stop squirming, wriggling around in my seat like an unruly toddler while the immaculately dressed waitress shoots me the occasional irritated glare.
Honestly, I'm not sure if she's glaring at me because the short dress, high heels, and nervous energy I'm sporting are entirely out of place in a restaurant full of people who look like they know exactly where they belong in the world, or if she's annoyed that my presence means the handsome man opposite me is taken.
