Jackson’s always catching me.
Shooting up in bed, I clutch at the covers on my bed to try to ground myself.
It was a dream. Only a dream.
My throat is dry and my hands won’t stop trembling, so I shove off the covers and make my way down the hallway that leads from my bedroom to the kitchen.
Jackson’s house is my dream home I envisioned at eighteen, only amplified and modernized to everything I didn’t know I’d want and need in a home at twenty-eight. I cling to every detail all over again to bring my heart rate back down and distract me from my racing thoughts.
The beautiful engineered oak wood floors are throughout the house, the only exceptions being the four bedrooms upstairs and the basement. The walls are either painted black or the perfect off-white color. There are wooden and stone accents everywhere, my favorite of which being the antique beams on the vaulted ceilings in the main living spaces and my bedroom and bathroom.
When he was giving me the full house tour earlier this week, Jackson pointed out small details most people wouldn’t appreciate knowing, but I was fascinated by each and every one of them.
Like when he pointed out how he worked with the builder to make sure to prioritize energy efficiency, and he suggested making the home a net-zero one, meaning it produces as much energy as it consumes. Or that he implemented as many smart home systems as he could, with advanced security measures, voice-activated controls for lighting, thermostat, and appliances, and the fact that he can manage almost everything in the home from an app on his phone. After showing me the app, he had me download it and added me as a secondary user on his account.
I still can’t quite wrap my head around the fact that he built my dream home on my dream plot of land—large enough to raise farm animals as well as children like we often used to talk about.
My mood sours at the reminder that it doesn’t matter if I’m staying in my literal dream home when it’s going to be more like a prison of a reality I’ll never have.
Letting out an exaggerated sigh when I take in the dimly-lit kitchen, I drag my fingers along the custom concrete countertop of the island. If Jax hadn’t told me, I’d have guessed the island was made of wood with its dark wood tones and the live edge. The countertop is cool beneath my finger tips, causing goosebumps to peak across my flesh. This is my dream kitchen—almost as if he stole the ideas straight from my memories—with black cabinetry and a stone backsplash.
“T? You good? Do you need anything?”
I turn, unsurprised to find Jax standing at the base of the stairs. From what I can remember, he never could fall into a deep sleep; I guess some things never change. Yet again, maybe they do. As he moves closer, my eyes stay fixed on the ink displayed across his bare chest and continues down his left armwhile the right arm remains ink-free. A transposition to what is happening inked on his right leg from his ankle up to where the ink swirls and disappears beneath his dark athletic shorts.
It’s not only the ink that’s changed—this man has grown into himself. Long gone is the somewhat lanky teenager, and in his place is a deliciously sculpted man. His chest is so much broader, his pecs more defined, and I’m not sure what possesses me to do so, but I have to fight the urge to take his light brown nipple into my mouth and suck on it.
I bet it still drives him wild.
Instead of berating myself for those salacious thoughts, I double the fuck down. My breath hitches as I take in the masculinity coming off of him in waves. God, I’m pretty sure he’s gotten taller too. He’s got to be over 6’3” now. I’m miniature-sized in comparison with my 5’3” frame.
I used to love the way he’d so easily pick me up, practically manhandling me every opportunity he got. And even now, I can’t stop myself from wondering what he could do with those extra inches of height and pounds of muscle. Hell, I’m half convinced that maybe his new tattoos should be factored into the endless possibilities.
Only as he stands right before me do I get a better glimpse of them, though I can only make out the faintest of details in the dim lighting. Like the way the sleeve of his left arm has the most beautifully intricate roses shaded in black and white ink. There are thorns throughout that extend down onto his hand, wrapping around his left ring finger.
How had I not noticed that?
I’m so mesmerized by the artwork displayed on his hand, I almost miss the flock of ravens adorning his Adonis belt on his left side. A place I know all too well. A spot I used to lick a trail over that drove Jax crazy.
“Jax,” I breathe, unable to come up with anything more intelligible than his name.
He’s close now, so close I watch in utter fascination the way his throat works when he swallows and I damn near moan when his Adam’s apple bobs. His jawline is shadowed by scruff after not shaving since sometime before his brother’s wedding. My fingers ache to run over the stubble and grip into his curly locks. Instead, I reach behind me and grip the edge of the island to stop myself from doing something foolish like touch my estranged husband.
“Tae,” he draws out the single syllable, his voice full of gravel. My nipples pebble beneath my sleep tank, and it takes everything in me not to reach for him. It’s been so long since I’ve yearned for another’s touch, so long since I’ve been held in someone’s warm embrace.
Nearly every night since I was last in his arms, I’ve craved the feeling of being tangled up in bed with him. And it’s no one’s fault but my own that we’re where we are today. I was the one who chose to leave and never look back.At least, that’s what he thinks—all he can ever know.
The realization hits me like a bucket of ice water, and thank fuck for that. I was a hot second away from dropping to my knees to beg for forgiveness.
Oh, fuck. Abort, abort! Get out of here, T!
Knowing I need to get out of this room and put some much needed space between us, I let go of the island and open a cabinet I’m pretty sure he told me holds the glasses. Before I even realize I opened the wrong cabinet, Jax passes me with a glass in hand headed to the refrigerator.
“Water?” he asks.
Clearing my throat, I nod before realizing he has his back to me. “Yes, please,” I say, my voice shaky from the mixture of lust and uncertainty.
When he turns to hand me the water, there’s a cocky smirk etched across his face, the very smirk that headlines in my dreams each night and used to incinerate my panties. “Thirsty, T?” he questions, bemused and completely self-assured.
