We continue to hold hands a bit longer as we eat. Yet, while Jackson jokes with my sisters and charms my mother, I can't shake the anxiety clawing at me.
I'm not ready for things to change. Not even close.
Mom catches my eye across the table. She's always been able to read me like a book. I try to smile, to reassure her. But it’s tight, too forced.
Jackson's thumb traces circles on my palm, and I tighten my grip as I chew a piece of prime rib.
Whatever comes next, whatever changes we face, I'm not letting go of what we have without a fight.
Chapter 2
Jackson
My bedroom door barely clicks shut before I shove Killian against it, my teeth grazing his throat as my hands work their way under his shirt. His skin is hot beneath my palms, muscles tensing under my touch. “Fuck, I've missed this.”
“Someone's eager.” His hands slide under my sweater, nails digging into my skin.
“You're the one who kept sending those goddamn thirst traps.” I grab his wrists and pin them above his head, latching onto his neck. The steady thrum of his pulse against my tongue sends heat racing through my veins. “Like that video of you working out shirtless. What kind of asshole does push-ups in just compression shorts?”
“The kind trying to get his boyfriend all worked up. Besides, you're one to talk. All those post-shower selfies—”
I grind against him, smirking when his breath hitches. “Worked though, didn't it? Had you jerking off on video chat every night.”
“Fuck you.”
“That's the plan, golden boy.” My hands slide down to grab his ass as he writhes against me, making those little sounds in the back of his throat that drive me fucking insane.
“Think your sisters enjoyed dinner?” I murmur against his skin, working my way up to his ear. “Emily took enough pictures to fill a damn coffee table book.”
He laughs, then moans when I bite his earlobe. “Pretty sure half of them are already on Instagram. And Lilly's obsessed with that chocolate fountain.”
“Everyone's obsessed with it.” I pull back just enough to yank his shirt off, taking a moment to admire the way the low light plays across his chest. “But right now, I'm more interested in marking this canvas.”
His eyes darken as I unbuckle my belt, sliding it slowly through the loops. “You're such a possessive fuck.”
“You love it.” I spin him, backing him toward my desk, leaving a trail of clothes in our wake. “Been dying to get my belt on that ass again. Make you scream my name.”
His pupils dilate, breath catching. “That a promise or a threat?”
“Both.” I force him around and bend him over my desk, but the movement jostles my mouse, and my computer screen flickers to life.
Shit. Fuck. No.
Killian goes rigid, his eyes fixed on the monitor. On the Crestwood Graduate Programs website I'd left open earlier like a fucking idiot.
The silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating. I step back, my heart hammering against my ribs in a way that has nothing to do with arousal.
“What's going on?” His voice is quiet and careful, like talking to a spooked animal.
I rake a hand through my hair, pacing away from him. My skin feels like it's trying to crawl off my bones. How do I tell him my chest gets tight whenever I think about going to Winnipeg? That sometimes I wake up gasping, phantom plain shooting through my ribs?
That I'm fucking terrified?
“I've been . . .” My voice catches. I clear my throat, hating how weak I sound. "I've been rethinking things. Since the attack.”
His honey-brown eyes soften. “Is that why you tensed up at dinner when my mom mentioned the Jets?”
I nod, dropping onto the edge of my bed. My hands won't stop shaking, so I clench them into fists. “Every time I step into the locker room, I look over my shoulder, waiting for someone to blindside me.”
