“What are you—”
“I’m taking these,” I tell Jersey, retrieving the eggs and slamming the fridge door closed.
He frowns at me. “There’s eleven eggs there. I only used four.”
I shrug. “Consider the rest damages. For emotional distress from you almost killing me.”
He gives a dramatic eye roll but waves me out of the kitchen, allowing me to take the eggs.
* * *
“You’ve been gone for ages,”Jackson murmurs when I finally crawl into bed next to him on Saturday night.
I got home a little while ago but I wanted to shower the weird day off first. Three attempts at a hook-up. Three sure things. Three epic fails. I let myself off the hook for Jersey, obviously. And after that, when I couldn’t really get into it with a guy I found on one of my apps, I figured I was just having the same bad luck I had last night…
But then I hit up a club and picked up an incredibly hot guy I was sure would break whatever curse has been put on me, but… I don’t know. I really can’t explain what happened. I just wasn’t into it. Eventually I decided to just give him a BJ and leave it at that. I give epic blow jobs so obviously he was going crazy and piling on all the praise that I usually eat up with a spoon. But tonight it just felt so…wrong. And meaningless. And pathetic.
I wrap my arms tight around Jackson’s hard, warm body and squeeze gently. “Sorry. I wasn’t planning to be gone so long.”
“Why did some Uber guy drop off a carton of eggs with one missing?”
“That’s kind of a long story. Not important.”
He mumbles an agreement and I can tell he’s pretty much zoned out, on the verge of sleep.
I brush a soft kiss to his neck and nestle in close, making myself as comfortable as I can while my brain churns all over the place.
I really want to write today off as just a weird set of circumstances resulting in a disappointing outcome. That’s possible, right? It doesn’t really mean anything.
So I would have way preferred spending that time hanging out with Jackson—what does that prove? I always prefer to spend my time hanging out with Jackson.
I let out a sigh, scowling into the darkness as though Deacon is here for me to rail at. Why did he have to go put this ridiculous idea in my head and throw me all off-kilter? It’s completely insane. And impossible. Ican’twant Jackson that way. I just can’t.
I choke on a breath and draw away from him a little as I try to soothe the knot of dread forming in my gut; it’s the kind of feeling I’ve never,everhad in association with Jackson, because I’ve never had any reason to fear losing him. But this…
I shake my head sharply and let out a huff of frustration. No, I tested this. The results were conclusive. This whole crazy idea of Deacon’s shouldn’t be bothering me this much anymore.
But as I gaze over Jackson’s sleeping form, it occurs to me I might have been using the wrong algorithm for my test. I can’t compare him to my random hook-ups; it’d be like comparing Steph’s home-baked bread, fresh from the oven to a Big Mac.
I’m not really sure where this leaves me, though. Except incredibly confused and twisting with anxiety. As I try in vain to figure things out, I absently trace my finger over the ink on Jackson’s back. It’s been there for close to a decade, so I’m very familiar with it, but I don’t think I’ve ever actually taken the time to reallyappreciateit before. At first glance, the design appears to be vines reaching out from the ink on his biceps, but when you look closer you can see little symbols and lyrics from songs in place of some of the leaves. It covers his shoulder blades and then narrows down his back, twisting off at the base of his spine. Like a pin point on a map.
I jerk my hand away as the thought hits me. What the fuck? Could I be any creepier right now? I try to banish the thought from my mind, but now it’s there, it’s really hard not fixate on just how low that tattoo goes.
Fucking hell.
“Don’t stop,” Jackson murmurs. “I like that.”
I jolt in surprise. “You’re awake?”
“Mmm…just. Can you keep tracing my ink? It feels nice.”
Just like today with the hair, I find it impossible to say no to the request. So I settle behind him again and start running my finger over the vines on his back.
Except…I don’t stick to his back. I start tracing the ink on his bicep, and down his arm. And then, somehow, I end up with my hand on his chest, my fingers greedily exploring all the ridges and planes and ropes of muscle while I nuzzle into his nape, breathing fire on his back.
Of course I’m well aware Jackson is ripped, and this is hardly the first time I’ve ever touched his abs. But it’s never been like this.
Jackson’s response is similar to this afternoon, and hearing those soft groans of unabashed pleasure is doing more for me than any of the guys I attempted to hook up with today. I’m hard as fuck, and I don’t think I can put it down to my cock being confused this time. It’s all Jackson.
