Jackson: A Sexy Bastard Novel (3 page)

When we break apart briefly, gasping for air, she quickly reaches for my shirt, pulling me close again. Our foreheads are inches apart, and as I breathe in, I realize where the lavender scent is coming from. I slide my nose down her jaw, ducking into her neck, and inhale. The scent consumes me. I look up to see that her eyes are closed, the pale lashes folded against the delicate skin of her cheeks. I release one hand and let my fingertips flit across her eyelids, her cheekbones, down to her lips. I trace their outline with my thumb, applying only the slightest of pressure. I’m trying so hard to be gentle, trying not to consume her all at once. It’s like trying to slow down a freight train.

Suddenly, she parts her lips and takes my thumb inside. Her soft tongue probes down the length of it, wrapping itself around the skin and then releasing. My cock is rearing its head in ferocious jealousy, and my heart goes fucking crazy inside my chest.

“Fuck, Skylar.”

“Mmm,” she moans, letting her tongue flick out against my skin.

“What do you want?” I whisper to her.

“This.”

Eyes half closed, she sucks each one of my fingers slowly, knuckle to tip. When she gets to the last one, my entire body surges forward. I need her. I need to feel her skin, her heat, her delicious wetness. I need to know what she feels like when she comes. I need to know what she tastes like even more than that.

“I thought we didn’t know each other,” Skylar murmurs, but she doesn’t stop me as I reach down between her legs. I can feel the heat there, the tender vulnerability of the skin between her thighs. The thin material of her panties is damp against my fingers as she slides a hand down and pushes them aside.

“You’re sure you want this?”

I force her to open her eyes, to look into my face. I need her to know who is doing this, touching her. I need her to know that it’s me making her body feel this way.

Leaning past my cheek, her lips brush the inside of my ear as she whispers.

“I’ve been sure all night. Let’s live a little.”

W
hen his fingers
plunge inside me, my body ignites. Heat rushes to my core, and every muscle clenches around his hand. He gently exhales as his thumb circles my clit, and shivers race up my spine. The spicy, leathery smell of the car’s interior is all up in my head, and the sensation of his fingers teasing me, dipping in and trailing out, is almost more than I can bear.

I’ve been with plenty of guys before, and they’re always in a hurry, racing to the next step, trying urgently to get you off so that they can get off. But this . . . this is something entirely different. His fingers are slow, so slow I’d wonder if he is afraid to touch me, except for the deliberateness of them, the exquisite knowledge of exactly where to probe to make me tremble.

And the expressions on Jackson’s face . . . you’d think
he
was the one getting off on this. His eyes are closed, lips slightly parted—lips I’d suck, bite, absolutely consume if I could just fucking catch my breath. Every time I think I’m getting a break, he thrusts his fingers deeper, teases my clit, and I’m a shaking, moaning mess all over again.

I had no idea my body could do this. It’s like he’s been inside me forever, and I’m still shaking and dripping, and this goddamn skirt hiked halfway up my chest is of no help at all.

He grabs me and pulls me closer. I grind into him, seeking that sweet ache just before I’m about to come and leaning into it, increasing the pressure, but just as I can feel my body start to tip over the edge, he draws me back, slows the insistent pace of his fingers circling my clit, and I moan in frustration.

“Fuck me.” I reach for his lap but he pushes my hand away.

“No.”

“Why?” I realize I’m begging, but I can’t take this. My body feels like an electric wire, sparking, on the brink of igniting. I just want to be there, inside that swirl of oblivion. I need the nothingness to consume me. Grabbing his arm, I use my entire body weight to thrust his hand into me.

“Jackson please don’t torture me like this,” I whisper to him. And, blessedly, my words are enough. He curls his fingers inside me, touching upon that spot of painful sweetness, applying pressure. Everything inside me explodes. The car goes black and my body explodes, then reassembles, pulsing for I have no idea how long. The next thing I know, I’m sagging against the car door, panting, suddenly acutely aware of the picture I must make: skirt hiked around my waist, legs splayed, shirt drenched in sweat. But Jackson’s eyes are trained on my face, as though he is searching for something. What is he looking for? He can see me, all of me, and I know exactly what I look like: a girl who just came, hard and fast and better than I have in months.

I give him another moment to look, waiting for his eyes to stray, for his hands to follow, for the next phase of this process. I know this moment. This is when the guy starts unzipping his pants, laying the seats back, taking off my shirt. But Jackson isn’t doing any of that. It’s clear how ready he is; his insistent erection is clear proof that he absolutely wants to fuck me. Yet instead of reaching for me, he’s gripping the seat, searching me with those intense, hungry eyes.

Then he leans forward. For a split second, part of me thinks he’s about to do it again, about to thrust those fingers, still wet, back inside, and my body screams
yes
! But at the last moment his hand comes up over my thighs and tugs on the fabric of my skirt, gently laying it across my lap. His movements are as slow and precise as they were an instant ago, and I my thighs clench in unnecessary anticipation. When my skirt is back in place, he sits up.

“I could watch you come like that every day of my fucking life, gorgeous.”

His voice is gravelly, and his body says he wants to fuck; I can see it in the tension of his shoulders, the wetness of his lips. But he just put my clothes
back on
. Those are not the actions of someone who is trying to fuck you. They’re the actions of someone trying to hold back. It’s as though he could actually . . . actually care.

Fuck no.

“I—I have to go.” I yank my T-shirt away from my body—clearly an effort in futility, since the moment I move, it suctions right back against my skin. One of my sneakers has come off and is lying idly on the floor, beside my backpack. I don’t even bother putting it on; I just scoop it up along with the backpack and fumble with the handle of the door. The last thing I need is to be some Cinderella character, leaving her smelly old shoe for Prince Charming to treasure.

“This was great. Thanks for the ride.”

“Wait!” He reaches out and touches my back. I freeze. “You don’t live here, do you? I can drive you home.”

“It’s fine. I . . . know someone.” His fingers fall away as I open the door and the damp night air rushes in. “Thanks for everything. At the club and all.” I pause. I know I’m rushing away, but I can’t have this kind of guy in my life: someone who doesn’t want to just eat and fuck and call it a night. It’s not what I need, not now, not ever.

“The tacos were great, right?” I finally ask.

“Yeah.” He looks conflicted, as though he might reach out again, try to draw me back in. “Yeah, they were great, Skylar. Thank you.”

If he touches me, I’m done for.

“Awesome.” I smile, hurrying my body out of the car. Hopefully I’ve managed to convey
thanks
, and
goodbye
, and
it’s not you, it’s me
. “Drive safe!”

The door makes a satisfying slam behind me, and then I’m off, stutter-stepping between one sneakered foot and one bare foot until I’m far enough away. When I hear the engine start behind me, I stop to shove my foot back into the shoe and listen for the clutch to engage. I won’t turn around. I won’t look.

Finally, I hear the crunch of gravel and the purr of the vehicle moving away into the night. My stomach clenches, but I straighten up and carry on.

This is good. I got what I wanted: Adventure. Bragging rights. A body-rocking orgasm.

And now I have a backpack full of dollar bills, too. All in all, a big win.

So why do I feel like I just lost?

W
ell
, this is awesome. I have to be at work—at my
brand new job
—in t-minus fifteen minutes, and I still can’t find my goddamned wallet.

Digging under a pile of last night’s dirty clothes, I pull out my backpack, wrestle open the zipper, unceremoniously dump the cash out onto the floor, and start counting. Forty-seven one-dollar bills. That’s all the cash I have. Well, I might be able to round up to fifty if I add the partially used roll of laundry quarters on my nightstand.

Glancing in the mirror, I rake a clawed hand through my freshly showered hair and review my options one more time. If I leave now and walk, I’ll only be about fifteen minutes late, but that might put me out of a job. I can call a cab, but I might be late anyway, and then I’ll be both out of a job
and
broke.

Ultimately, I decide to combine the best of bad options: I’ll start walking and call a cab on the way. Snatching my keys and phone from the nightstand, I give the pile of dirty clothes one last kick toward the hamper and leave the apartment. Bounding down the stairs two at a time, I reach the front door and am just about to unlatch the deadbolt when I glance through the glass pane and stop cold.

Jackson.

He looks just as handsome as I remember, maybe even more so in the daylight. Sandy brown hair, broad shoulders tapering down to a lean waist. He’s wearing a navy suit—simple and neatly pressed, similar to what he was wearing last night—and he’s clutching a small item that I can’t quite make out. He stops, peers down at it, and then looks around, like he’s lost, or at the zoo, or exploring the moon. I guess Grove Park would be basically the moon to someone like him.

What the hell is he doing here?

“Hi.” I push out the door and hurry down the steps before he can come any closer. My first floor neighbors have a lovely little heroin habit. The last thing I need is for him to trip over a needle and stab himself in the knee.

When he looks up, a hesitant smile spreads across his face.

“I’m so glad I found the right place.”

My body is careening toward him, but suddenly I stop cold.

How
did
he find me?

My mind reverses through the last eight hours, trying to remember if I saw any cars on my walk home, or anything weird at all. Could he really have followed me without my knowing? But if he didn’t follow me, how else could he know where I live?

As if he can hear my thoughts, he holds up the object in his right hand.

My wallet.

“Oh thank god!” Before I process what I’m doing, I’ve launched myself at him and throw my arms around his neck. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“Whoa.” He takes a step back as my body hits him in the chest, but then he touches my waist and steadies us both. He doesn’t push me away. “I figured you’d probably need it—”

“You literally just saved my life.” He smells sharp, like pine and sandalwood, but undercut with something else, something that makes me think of the earth. I breathe in deeply and then untangle myself. He hands me the wallet.

“Seriously, thank you so much.” I shove it into my back pocket and force myself to move past him on the steps. “I’m actually on my way to work, and if I run to the next stop, I can still catch the bus.”

“Wait.”

He grabs my hand. His fingers are tight, insistent. My mind instantly flashes back to the feeling of them inside me, and I suppress a quiver of desire.

“Where are you headed?”

I clear my throat.

“Do you know The Library? Like, not the actual library, but the new bar, down on Mercer Street.”

“Yeah, of course.” He pauses. “I’m good friends with the owner.”

“Get out!” This might just be my lucky day. “Well, it’s actually my first day serving there and—” I glance at my phone “—I’m running late.”

Jackson cocks his head as he looks down at me. He really is Oh-My-God tall.

“Why don’t I drive you?”

“Would you mind?” Again without thinking, I bounce up on the balls of my feet and kiss his cheek. “You are a total lifesaver.”

“Not a problem.”

His car is parked at the curb. When we reach it, he opens the passenger door for me. It feels so comfortable and easy, sliding into the leather seat and letting my backpack drop onto the floor. I could get used to this.

I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. Or which one I want it to be.

I
t’s been
a week and one day since I met Skylar. Apparently, that’s how I think of goddamn time now: in days since I met Skylar.

To be fair, this is probably because every time I turn around, she pops into my head. I feel like a fucking high school kid with a crush or something, but it’s practically out of my control at this point.

God, I could just keep picturing her face while she comes for the rest of my life…

“Hello? Space cadet? I thought you were gonna pass me the chips?”

I snap out of my reverie and glance toward the lounge chair next to me. The girl seated there is my spitting image, only five years younger and very, very female.

“Aren’t you full yet?” I ask my sister.

Shelby gasps in mock horror and pulls her cover-up around her more tightly. “What are you saying?”

“Uh, that you haven’t stopped snacking since you got here.” I pick up the bowl of tortilla chips and pass it to her.

As she tosses her head in defiance, I am once again supremely grateful that Knox is sitting right behind her, where he’ll hopefully always be. The guy is as solid as a rock in basically every way, and a billion times better than the hundred other guys she used to reel in with that open laugh and carefree attitude. We had a rocky start—them hiding their relationship, me throwing a punch I still regret—but Knox has forgiven me and Shelby and I are back to teasing one another relentlessly.

So now I’m absolved of worrying about my carefree, fun-loving, pain-in-the-ass little sister. At least in theory.

I look across the shallow end of the pool to where Ryder and Cash are seated on identical lounge chairs in nearly identical positions: legs sprawled out in front of them, heads tilted back, holding sweaty beer bottles. The only difference is that Ryder has his girl, Cassie, on his lap. Savannah, Cash’s better half, couldn’t make it today; she’s apparently working on a high-stakes copyright infringement case. The woman’s a shark in heels: a blonde, blue-eyed, Harvard Law graduate who has a biting wit and no patience for fools. I’m still floored by the fact that a playboy like Cash managed to land her.

“How’s business coming?” I direct my question at Ryder, but it’s more or less for Cash, too. Along with Knox and another friend Parker, they’re my business partners. Together, we own a half-dozen, including Altitude, the number one lounge bar in Atlanta, and The Library, a more low-key vintage bar that we opened several months ago. The Library was such a success, that we’re already putting together plans for another joint: Skid Row, a back-alley speakeasy where clubbers will enter through a hidden entrance and get hammered on Prohibition-era drinks.

Ryder is the brains behind each of these operations, while Cash is the brawn: the people-person who acts as the front-of-house manager, while also tending the bar. Me? I’m just the shareholder architect. I mean, sure, I get a say in any decisions we make, and I swing by to help out, but when it comes to brainstorming and executing brand new business plans? I prefer to cast my vote, hand over my money, and call it a day—at least until it’s time to start designing the place. These days, though, it’s been harder and harder to stay out of the drama.

“Ah, you know. Business is business.”

Ryder, never a man of many words, looks satisfied with his answer and takes a long pull from his beer.

“What he means,” Cassie jumps in, “is that business is booming. They had to turn people away at Altitude the other night. Cut the line off at one point and just told everyone else to go home.”

Cassie is not only dating Ryder, she’s also our bookkeeper and substitute waitress/server for when people call out—which I suppose someone must have done last night, if she’s privy to whatever happened at Altitude.

“Yeah, well, if we ever get Skid Row open, we can send all those people there.” Cash looks at Ryder pointedly, but the other man just leans back farther in his chair and closes his eyes.

“We’ve been through this, Cash.”

“I know, man, but think about it! We’ve got the Downey street building locked down, we’ve got the cash flow, we’ve got the reputation—what’s stopping us?”

Ryder sighs. “Jackson, please remind our friend here who keeps the books.”

Cassie clears her throat. “Hey, don’t blame me for being conservative with money. If it weren’t for me, you’d be bankrupt in a month.”

“Whoa, whoa.” I shake my head. “I’m not getting in the middle of this. You know where I stand. When you guys decide it’s time to move, I’m ready to start the blueprints. Until then . . .”

I glance at Knox for backup. He just shrugs. “You know that if it were up to me, we’d open another sports bar. Those things are cash cows. And now with the whole Braves team at our disposal . . .”

Collectively, Cash, Ryder, Cassie, Shelby, and I all roll our eyes.

“Knox, baby.” Shelby puts a hand on his arm. “I know I have to keep reminding you, but baseball is not a sport, it’s a hobby. And we already
have
a Falcons bar.”

“It’s not just Altitude,” Cash continues, ignoring Knox and Shelby as they begin to tussle. “Things have really picked up at The Library, too. We already hired another server this week.”

“Oh yeah? Anyone interesting?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest. When I dropped Skylar off on Monday, we both agreed it would be best if I didn’t go in with her.

“It’ll look like you’re babysitting me,” she explained. “The owner’s best friend dropping me off for my first day of work? That’s just weird.”

“Fine—but I want to see you again.” I couldn’t let her get out of the car without the reassurance that I would.

“Well, you know where I live, now, so technically you can find me whenever you want.” Her Cupid’s bow lips twisted into a devilish smile.

“That sounds a little stalkerish, even for me. How about I give you my number and you call me later?”

“Deal.”

I reached into my jacket pocket and passed her a business card.

“Awesome. Thanks again for the ride.”

Then she pushed up on her toes, brushed her lips against my cheek, and she was gone. Again.

“Earth to Jackson?” Cash comes into my field of vision, waving his hands like an on-duty lifeguard.

“Sorry.” I give myself a shake and refocus on my friends.

“You know what’ll wake you up?” Shelby asks as she stands and unties her gauzy cover-up. “A nice dip in the pool.”

“Shel, no one’s dressed to go swimming but you.”

“Well that’s your own damn fault.”

“So. Halford.” Ryder tips his beer bottle. “Give us the latest and greatest. You get him to fund your hospital gig yet?”

“Maybe.”

“What do you mean, maybe?” Ryder asks, brow raised. “Either he wrote a check or he didn’t.”

We’re momentarily distracted when Shelby dives into the pool, glides along the bottom, and comes up in the shallow end, spouting a stream of water into the air.

“Guys this is so refreshing! You don’t know what you’re missing.”

I ignore her and continue to address Ryder.

“We talked about it when we met last week. He basically forced me to go out with him and his fucking rich asshole friends.”

“Where’d you go?” Cassie asks, at the same time that Cash shouts, “You’re ditching us for some billionaire windbag?”

I ignore his outburst. “We went to Lace.”

“Ew.” She makes a face. “I didn’t think you liked that sort of thing.”

“He wasn’t there to meet a girl,” Shelby pipes up from the pool. “He’s looking for a wife, not a lapdance.”

“That true?” Ryder looks at me discerningly.

I eye him back. “Which part?”

“The wife part, dude.”

I shrug. “I don’t think I am opposed to it if the right girl came along. Look at you guys, you are all wifed up. Even Shelby has a man.” I watch Cash head for the beer fridge at the end of the pool. “And now that my career is a bit more stable, it seems like the right time. I’m almost thirty.”

“Dude, thirty is the new twenty!” Cash, seeming to have forgotten his grievances for the moment, grabs another beer and gulps down half the bottle in one swallow. “The average age at Altitude is twenty-seven, and they’re
all
single.”

He notices Cassie’s raised eyebrows. “What? I conducted an unofficial survey.”

She makes a face and he winks at her.

“Anyway,” he says, turning back to me, “you come to Altitude, and you’ll clean up. What girl isn’t gonna want to get with you? Successful architect who’s partial owner of the hottest clubs in town?” He’s down to a third of his beer by the time he gets back to his lounge chair.

“That’s not gonna work,” Shelby butts in, “because Jackson has a list.”

“Shelby, stop.” I scowl at her and she flicks water at me.

“A list?” Cassie looks intrigued.

“Not a . . . list-list.”

“Bro, you can’t just go to the grocery store of women and read the labels. You know that, right?” Cash is already returning to the beer fridge, empty bottle in hand.

“You can if you date online.”

Everyone stops and stares at me.

“What?” I scoff, rolling my eyes. “Lots of people do it.”

“Sad, isn’t it?” Shelby clearly cannot help herself. “I’ve been trying to recruit him for my yoga class, but he just wants to look at photoshopped women online.”

“Yoga’s not a bad idea,” Cash muses. “No surprises there. Definitely a case where what you see is what you get.”

Without warning, my mind flashes back to Skylar, onstage, bending back, back, back until her palms hit the floor. Leg muscles taught, hipbones exposed, blindingly blond hair grazing the wooden stage. Did she learn that doing yoga?

I’m pretty sure strippers don’t do backbends.

Fuck, how would I even explain Skylar to them? “Hey guys, I met this stripper and I’m really into her. Now shut the fuck up about it.”

“Jackson?” Shelby’s standing in front of me, dripping all over my lounge chair. “Where is your brain today? You’re off in La-La land.”

“Look at you, you have goose bumps all over you.” I stand up, intending to find her a towel, but then I see that Knox has already beaten me to it.

“I got her,” he tells me, wrapping her up from behind. She smiles and leans into him, and I sit back down in my lounge chair, feeling a familiar bout of relief. He is so good for her.

“So you have a profile and everything?” Cassie, ever the stickler for details, gets the conversation back on track. “What site are you on?”

“I set one up on E-motion a while ago but I don’t really look that often.”

“Okay, so what’s the plan then?” Cassie persists. “You have the profile, you have your mysterious list . . . what’s stopping you?”

This girl
, I think.
This crazy, spontaneous, beautiful girl that I’m stupidly hoping will call me. Who happens to be a stripper.

“Nothing’s stopping him,” Shelby answers for me. “In fact, he’s going to log on tonight and ask a girl out.”

I look toward her, ready to protest, but when I see the determined set of her jaw, I know it’s futile.

“Fine.”

I look out at the once-again smooth, glassy surface of the pool. My life is in order: job stable, money coming in, house paid off, friends happy. Nothing should be stopping me from checking this next item off my life list. Plus, it will be a relief to finally have an even number on poker night, and fight night, and every other night our crew goes out together. They’re all probably just as sick of my third-wheel status as I am.

“Fine. I’ll log on tonight.”