Under My Skin

Page 32

“Beautiful.”
That is all he says, but the heat in that word sends ripples through me, like a swarm of electric butterflies that settle between my legs, the lightness of their touch drawing me to the edge, but not quite over.
I catch the scent of mint on his breath and think that’s odd, because Jackson doesn’t suck on mints or chew gum as a rule. I don’t ask, though, as I know he doesn’t want me to speak. And, frankly, my curiosity is satisfied soon enough, because without any preamble at all, he runs his hands up my thighs spreading me wider, then closes his mouth over my clit.
Oh. My. God.
His tongue is teasing me in the most exceptional way, but that is not what has truly sent me reeling. It’s the mint. Icy and hot all at the same time, arousing and enticing with just a hint of pain.
I squirm, trying to escape this onslaught of sensation that threatens to overwhelm me, but Jackson holds me fast. I can go nowhere. I can only submit to pleasure. To pain. To the brilliant, fiery heat that thrusts me up and over until I am arched up in the bed, my hands tight on my breasts as Jackson’s tongue reduces me to nothing but ashes.
Only when all the tremors have passed do I actually breathe again. But even then I have no respite because Jackson grabs me by my hips and slides me down the bed so that my ass is right on the edge. He lifts me, then thrusts hard into me.
I melt with the pleasure of it. Of being taken. Of being fucked hard.
And when I slip my hand down to tease my so-sensitive clit, I hear Jackson’s soft growl of approval as his body slams into mine again and again and again.
I feel the tension build in him, and my muscles grab tight, wanting to heighten the explosion, to make it hard. To make it wild.
And when he finally explodes inside me, my body milks him until the last tremor of pleasure has swept through us both.
Once we are recovered enough to move, he tells me I can open my eyes. I find him smiling at me, his expression warm and satisfied. He slides up the bed, then holds out a hand for me to do the same.
I take a different route, though. I kiss my way up his body. His calf. His knee. His taut, toned thigh.
I see the newly inked tattoo that Cass gave him right beside his pubic bone—my initials, SB—and I gently kiss it. Then I gently lick up the length of his semi-hard cock, making him growl softly.
I glance up, grinning, and notice the tin of mints on the bedside table.
I start to reach for them, but he laughs and grabs my hands, sliding me up his body until I am balanced atop him and his arms are around my waist.
“No fair. I want to try them.”
“And I want to hold you.”
He rolls us over so that we are spooned side by side, his fingers idly stroking my shoulder and down my arm as I start to drift.
I am right on the verge of sleep when the words come. I don’t know what makes me say them—perhaps I want Jackson to know that we have exorcised not only the ghost of Jeremiah, but my father, too.
“My dad called me.”
I whisper the words, but I know that he has heard me when his arm tightens almost imperceptibly around me. “When?”
“In Santa Fe. You were outside with Ronnie. I’d just taken a shower.”
“Why didn’t you tell me before? Wait,” he immediately amends. “I know why. I was being an ass.”
I roll over, because I need to see his face. “No,” I say, then kiss him gently. “You were trying to protect me. In a boneheaded way, sure,” I add, drawing a small smile from him. “But the thought was there. And I didn’t tell you because you had enough on your plate with Ronnie and the news about Reed.”
He flashes an ironic grin. “So you were trying to protect me, too. Aren’t we a pair?”
My smile is wide and easy. “I like to think so.”
He continues to stroke my shoulder, and I sigh, simply enjoying the sensation. But after a moment, I prop myself up on my elbow, frowning. “Why did Jeremiah not want the connection between you and Damien revealed? I mean, it made a little bit of sense back when Damien was the golden boy with his face on cereal boxes. But now?”
Jackson shakes his head. “I don’t know. To be honest, I wonder if he might be the one who leaked it.”
“The father doth protest too much?”
“Something like that.”
“But why?”
“No idea,” Jackson admits. “And right now, I’m not interested in thinking about it.” He draws me close and I tuck my head against his chest. “Sylvia, tomorrow at the—”
“I don’t want to talk about tomorrow. Please. Can we just not?”