Part 26 (2/2)
That he's mine.
Jackson sits beside me, then pulls my feet into his lap. I've kicked off my shoes, but am still wearing the skirt I'd put on this morning, and I close my eyes, enjoying the feel of his fingers trailing gently over my calf.
”I'm so sorry,” I say.
”About what?”
I open my eyes to find him smiling softly at me, his expression so gentle it just about breaks my heart. ”About being melancholy. We should be out buying confetti and throwing it from rooftops.”
”I'm pretty sure that's against some city ordinance. I'd hate to get arrested,” he says, raising a brow mischievously.
I laugh.
”Seriously,” he says. ”You can be happy for me and sad for your dad. Or confused or whatever,” he rushes to say, obviously seeing on my face that I'm conflicted about how I feel about my father.
”I'm so happy that you're clear now,” I say. ”And I'm grateful to my dad, because he's the reason. But at the same time . . .” I lift my shoulders, unsure and unsteady. ”What he didand then what he did to you by not coming forward sooner.”
”I know, baby. But you don't have to think about it right now,” Jackson says. ”Just let it settle.”
”I don't even know if I want to see him.” The word is a whisper, shameful because he killed the man who tormented me. And even though it came late, his confession has saved the man I love.
And yet I don't want to be in debt to this man. Not when he owes me so much more than he can ever repay.
”You don't have to decide that right now, either.” His fingers are still stroking me, easing gently along my skin. It is just a light touch, and I close my eyes and let myself go, surrendering to this need to be tended and soothed.
His fingers ease higher, teasing me. The touch is so soft that at times I'm not even certain I feel him. And yet how can I not? This is Jackson touching me. Jackson taking care of me.
Jackson, loving me.
I don't know how long he strokes me, but I do know that with each caress I feel it more and more. As if he is polis.h.i.+ng me, making my body s.h.i.+ne with a sensual light. So that by the time his fingers sneak beneath my skirt to tease the soft skin of my inner thighs, I am aching for him. And by the time he reaches the juncture of my thighs to find me bare and gloriously wet, my v.a.g.i.n.a clenches in antic.i.p.ation of those fingers thrusting deep inside me.
I'm breathing hard, my body warm, my b.r.e.a.s.t.s aching, and I arch my back in a silent expression of longing.
But he doesn't penetrate me. Just the opposite, and I whimper because suddenly the contact disappears. I feel the s.h.i.+ft of the couch cus.h.i.+ons and open my eyes. He's standing above me, looking down with such longing and pa.s.sion that it makes my whole body tingle.
He's changed out of his suit into one of the pairs of jeans he keeps at my apartment, and I can see the strain of his c.o.c.k against the denim. It makes me smile. I like that he is bound. That he's going just a little crazy. I like it, because it will make the explosion when he is released that much more astounding.
”Come with me,” he says, but he doesn't wait for me to stand. Instead he picks me up, cradling me to his chest as I wrap my arms around his neck. It's a position that suggests comfort and tenderness, but when puts me on the bed and steps back, I see a building heat in his eyes that suggests otherwise.
”Hook your ankles behind me. Now,” he demands, as if I were going to protest. ”No words. No questions.”
I comply.
The position leaves my knees turned out so that the s.p.a.ce from my feet to my c.u.n.t form a diamond, and there is just a tiny amount of s.p.a.ce between his pelvis and mine. Just enough room for his hand to torment me sweetly.
And that is exactly what he does. That finger that was easing up my thigh does so again, trailing lazily up and down as I squirm, my hips undulating in a needful rhythm.
”I like that,” Jackson says, his voice so low I can barely hear it. ”I like watching you silently beg. Your c.u.n.t slick and hot for me.”
I close my eyes and drag my teeth over my lower lip. ”Jackson. Please.”
”Please what? Please this?” His fingertip trails lightly over my c.l.i.t, and the shock of that touch ricochets through me.
”Or this?” He slips two fingers inside me, then presses down on my c.l.i.t with his thumb, making me arch back, wanting more.
He pumps his fingers inside me, his thumb continuing to tease, and as he does, I'm losing the ability to think.
”I'm going to make you come, baby. I think you should just sit back and enjoy it.”
I try to answer, but he adds another finger and thrusts deep inside me, and I realize that I am incapable of forming words.
My c.u.n.t tightens around his fingers. I want it harder. Deeper.
”Close your eyes,” he says. ”Slide one hand up inside your s.h.i.+rt.”
I do. My skin feels hot to the touch.
”All the way up and then squeeze your nipple. Harder, baby. I know you like it hard.”
He's right, and I comply, biting my lower lip as I tease myself, and then gasping as he takes my other hand and slides it between my legs. ”Tease your c.l.i.t for me, baby,” he says as he thrusts his fingers inside me, finger-f.u.c.king me as I do what he says. As my worries and anxieties fall away. As pleasure builds. A celebration of now. Of freedom. Of life.
Of us.
”Come for me, baby.” His voice is low and steady and seems to roll over me, as sensual as his touch. ”Come for me and tell me you're mine.”
”I am,” I whisper. ”Oh, G.o.d, Jackson, I am.” The words are ripped out of me as I explode, my muscles convulsing so hard around his fingers that I probably have bruised him.
I let the storm wash over me, then sigh as he whispers, ”I'm going to marry you.”
”Yes,” I reply. ”You d.a.m.n sure are.”
twenty-six.
”Daddy! Stella! Sylvie! Someone else is here!”
Ronnie races through the apartment toward the foyer where the elevator has just binged.
I'm standing by the wet bar with Nikki and Stella, but it's Jackson's face that I'm watching, and it has such an expression of rapturous adoration that I'm determined to figure out how to submit Betty and Stella for sainthood.
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