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She moans, these soft, desperate sounds sliding from her perfect mouth, thickening my cock, driving me wild. She drives me wild, she speaks to me. I understand her, I feel her. I don’t want to understand her. I don’t want to feel anything but pleasure, and so I drive harder, pump and pump again, trying to make the sex all that matters. I fill my hands with her breasts and suckle her nipples, licking, teasing. My teeth nip her earlobe, her shoulder, her nipple. She tangles fingers in myhair and pulls, murmuring something as she does that I don’t understand, outside of the desperation in her words. I’m right there with her and together we’re grinding and moving, damn near crawling under each other’s skins.
Her nails dig into my shoulders, and I press her knee to her chest and roll to the side, using that angle to pull her down hard, but it’s not enough. I roll her to her back again, pump into her, and then we’re there, burning alive. She cries out and her body tenses. Another second and her sex clenches around me, spasming, milking my cock. Dragging me into that sweet spot with her, and I am suddenly shuddering with the intensity of my release. Time fades in and out, and then it’s done, it’s over, and yet, nothing is done and over between me and this woman. I roll her to her side, we’re facing each other, easing her leg down. She buries her face in my shoulder, and this is where I would normally get up, but I don’t. I don’t get up and there is no doubt that Emma Knight has given the word bittersweet a whole new meaning.
Chapter fifteen
Emma
Ilay there with Jax still inside me, emotions welling in my chest. God no. I’m going to cry. Sex was supposed to be an escape from the perpetual emotional rollercoaster ride of the past month, not a trigger. I press against his chest. “I need to get up,” I whisper, but still my voice manages to crack.
“Hey,” Jax says, his leg between my legs, his hand sliding between my shoulder blades. “What’s up, baby? Are you okay?”
I swallow the cotton in my throat. “I’m fine. Of course, I’m fine. How can I not be fine after that?”
“You’re not fine.” He strokes my hair, tilting my face to his and in this close proximity, there’s no escaping his inspection. “And I hate to tell you this, sweetheart, but you won’t be fine for a long time.”
He’s the only person that has been honest with me, who didn’t fluff up his words to make me feel better. “Thank you.”
“For what? The orgasm, orthe orgasm?”
I surprise myself by laughing. He surprises me by making it happen. “Yes. The orgasm, but,” I sober quickly, “more so, the part where you didn’t coddle me and tell me this was all goingto be better soon. I really want to jump off a bridge every time I hear that these days.”
He takes my hand and kisses it. “I know. Believe me, I know, which is why I suggest that you keep me close and fuck me every time you get stuck in your own head.” He pulls out of me. “Because I already want to be inside you again. I don’t want to leave, Emma. Not unless you want me to leave.”
“No,” I say easily. “You’ll be going back to Maine soon, I’m sure, back to the land of North Whiskey. I don’t want you to leave tonight.”
“Good,” he says, his voice a soft rasp, his eyes tender, and I swear there’s a flicker of something in his eyes that resembles relief, which is silly. We’re fucking. Nothing more. The man lives in another state. We’re just not ready to call this done yet.
He kisses me. “I need to go clean up.” He rolls away and I fight the urge to pull him back, not yet ready for reality to kick in, and when he’s touching me, that’s easier done. Instead, I sit up, holding myself on my hands, comfortable in my own skin, the one good thing York did for me. Even if I wasn’t, I have a distraction right now. Jax straightens to what I guess to be his full, six-foot-two-inches of long, hard man. “Where’s the bathroom?” He snatches up his pants and steps into them, rippling abs and defined biceps working a number on my eyes. There’s this line of hair down his abs that I haven’t gotten to appreciate until this moment and—
“Emma?”
I jerk my gaze back to his face instead of the rest of him, which works just fine since he’s now wearing his pants. “Yes?”
His lips, those perfect lips, quirk. “Do I pass inspection?”
“I didn’t finish the inspection. You put your pants on.”
His lips quirk. “Another reason to stay.”
“Yes,” I agree. “I do believe I need to finish what I started. Use the bathroom in my bedroom upstairs. The lights burned out in the one down here this morning.”
“Your bedroom it is,” he says, his eyes alight anew and he’s already walking toward the stairs.
I twist around to follow his retreat, watching all that muscle flex and move. The man is gorgeous. He also just had sex with the daughter of a man he hated, which reminds me of that anger in him when we’d first arrived; when we’d talked about the castle, his family castle, the one my father was secretly obsessed with, which still makes no sense to me. Why? I set that question aside with the memory of Jax inviting me to that very castle, almost as if he was baiting me. This unsettles me and I stand up, naked and aware of my nakedness this time, suddenly feeling exposed with Jax, vulnerable, when just a few minutes ago I felt a kind of kismet with this man. This is confusing—he’s confusing—and I find myself seeking out my velvet coat and pulling it around me like a robe, hurrying up the stairs to the loft-style upper level.
I step into the room as Jax exits the bathroom, his phone at his ear. “What’s the address here, sweetheart?” he asks. “I’m having something delivered to cheer you up.”
Sweetheart.
He’s called me this, and baby, before and I can’t explain why, but this time feels different. It does though, gentler, more tender, and then there is the cheer me up thing. He wants to cheer me up, not just fuck me? The wind of confrontation is officially out of my sail. Confused all over again, I recite the address and walk into the closet, exchanging my coat for a pink silk robe before exiting to find Jax has returned to the bathroom. My gaze catches on my father’s journal where it lies on the floor beside a lounge-style chair, sitting beside my bedroom fireplace. I hurry forward, scoop it up and sit down on the lounger, thefluffy white area rug soft beneath my toes, when everything inside this journal is hard and unfamiliar, and yet somehow the man I both grieve and hate right now.
Jax re-enters the room, disconnects his call and sits down next to me, both of us on the same side of the lounger, our legs now pressed close. “I ordered ice cream from an all-night spot I found when I did my law internship here. A lot of ice cream because I don’t know what you like. Which brings me to my therapy recommendations.”
He ordered ice cream? I’m charmed but I home in on another part of the conversation. “Therapy? Did you go to therapy?”
“I am now. It’s a combination therapy. Ice cream and,” he leans in and kisses me, “you.”
“What about all that hate earlier?”
