“Beautiful,” he breathes. “You are—terrifyingly beautiful.”
I step between his spread knees. I place my hands on his shoulders, careful of the bandages.
“Let me,” I whisper.
He nods, surrendering. “Yeah. Okay.”
I climb onto his lap, straddling his thighs. I keep my weight on my knees, hovering, protecting his injured side.
His good hand comes up immediately to my hip, gripping hard. His fingers dig in, possessive. Even with one arm, his touch is electric. This is a man who works with explosives—he understands pressure, timing, and the exact amount of force required to get a reaction.
He leans back against the cushions, watching me. “Take it off.”
I reach behind me, unhooking my bra. It falls away.
His eyes darken to black. He lifts his hand, cupping my breast, his thumb brushing the nipple. I gasp, my back arching instinctively.
“Sensitive,” he murmurs.
“Yes.”
He leans forward, ignoring the pain in his side, and takes me into his mouth.
The sensation is blinding. His tongue is hot, rough, and skilled. He teases, licks, and sucks, sending lines of fire straight to my core. My hands tangle in his hair, holding him there.
He pulls back, leaving me wet and aching.
“I need to see you,” he rasps.
He reaches for his belt buckle with his good hand. He fumbles, just for a second—a tremor in his fingers.
“I got it.” I brush his hand away.
I undo his belt. The button. The zipper.
He’s hard. Painfully hard. He springs free, heavy and thick against his stomach.
I take him in my hand. He jerks, his hips bucking upward involuntarily. A guttural sound tears from his throat.
“Three years,” he grits out, his head falling back against the sofa. “God, Talia. Be careful. I’m on a hair trigger.”
“I have you.”
I stroke him once, twice. He hisses, his hand clamping on my thigh to stop me.
“Not yet,” he says. “If you keep doing that, this will be over in ten seconds.”
He guides my hand away, and slides his between my legs.
He finds the wetness there.
“Good,” he whispers. “You’re ready.”
His fingers slip inside me.
Jackson is a virtuoso with his hands. He doesn’t just touch; he learns. He finds the rhythm instantly, curling his fingers, hitting a spot that makes my vision blur.
His thumb finds my clit. He works me, relentless and precise.
