Burn for You

I bit my lip.

Jackson said softly, “What are you looking at, Bianca?”

My gaze flashed up to his. He was staring at me with so much heat in his eyes I was momentarily speechless. I ripped my gaze away and stared down at the ring on my hand, letting it blind me. “Nothing.”

“Then why is your face the color of that chair in the corner?”

The scarlet chair, he meant. I closed my eyes. “Now who’s the honey badger?” I muttered.

After a long, tense moment of silence, Jackson slowly reached out and took my hand. He gently placed it on his stomach, then flattened his hand over it so my palm rested against his warm, bare skin.

His voice a low, sandpaper rasp, he said, “Were you looking at this?”

I said, “Don’t be silly,” but we both knew I was lying.

He grasped my forefinger, touched the tip of it to the fine down of hair beneath his belly button, and whispered, “This?” Using my finger like a paintbrush, he traced it slowly downward until it hit the top button of his jeans.

A violent tremor rocked me, but I didn’t open my eyes.

I didn’t move my hand, either.

Jackson lay very still beside me, except for his breathing, which was rough. Radiating heat, his stomach rose and fell under my hand. My heart was like a pealing bell.

He whispered my name. It was so sweet on his lips, such a tender sound. I made a noise deep in my throat, a retort or a plea, I didn’t know which. Big and slightly trembling, Jackson’s other hand stroked up the inside of my wrist.

A loud throat clearing from the doorway, and I jumped from the bed like my butt had pneumatic springs.

“Excuse me, sir,” said a uniformed male servant with a bland face and droopy hound dog eyes. He bowed. “Madam. Do you need anything before supper?”

Jackson sat up, rubbed his forehead, and growled, “No. And in the future your presence isn’t required unless I ring for you.”

The servant bowed again. “Very good, sir.” He disappeared as quickly as he arrived, leaving Jackson and me alone in excruciating silence.

I said, “I’ll just be hiding in the bathroom until dinner if you need me,” and bolted, slamming the door shut behind me. I collapsed against it, fighting for air, wondering how far that little dalliance on the bed would have gone if we hadn’t been interrupted.

Wondering how far I wanted it to go.

From behind the closed door, there might have been a muffled groan.

TWENTY-SEVEN

JACKSON

My cock had its own heartbeat. All the blood in my body had pooled in my groin. One lingering look from Bianca and I was twelve years old again, unable to control the sudden shocking flare of hormones that ignited a forest fire in my pants and left me speechless and sweating, and feeling guilty to boot.

Judging by her flight of terror into the bathroom, I was pretty sure I’d just made a fatal mistake.

“You fucking moron,” I said to the carpet as I leaned over the bed with my head in my hands. “You complete, colossal fuckwit.”

I couldn’t even console myself with the memory that we’d already shared two kisses before I lost my mind and almost shoved her hand down my pants. Those kisses didn’t count. They didn’t mean anything, at least to her. The first was simply a ploy to make her ex jealous. The second was simply my infantile ego throwing a fit over being called nonsexual.

Though both kisses were scorching hot—I thought so, anyway—it wasn’t like she wanted to kiss me in either instance. And now here I was again, mistaking what was probably a look of worry or concentration or something else altogether for a look of lust.

Could I be any more of a cliché? If a woman like Cricket couldn’t love me, Bianca Hardwick was the last woman on earth who would.

My brain was scrambled eggs. I wasn’t thinking straight. Bianca had told me not fifteen minutes ago that she was my friend. My friend. Not the girl who’d think it was a super great idea to play handsy with the aching, throbbing, twitching monster between my legs right before we went down to dinner with my estranged parents.

This was a disaster.

The water went on behind the bathroom door, followed by some faint gasping noises. That was probably Bianca puking into the sink. I had to make this right. I had to apologize.

I lumbered to my feet and went to the bathroom door. I rested my forehead against it and closed my eyes. When the sound of running water stopped, I said, “If you want to hit me with something, there’s a very heavy bronze reproduction of the obelisk in Saint Peter’s Square on the credenza. I can bring it to you. It has a conveniently pointy tip.”

Her response was muffled by the door. “I don’t want to hit you.”

I didn’t dare hope that meant anything other than she’d rather shoot me than clobber me over the head. I waited, my hands pressed flat against the wood, my heart pounding.

She moved closer to her side of the door, because her voice was clearer when she said, “Maybe we could just . . . forget that happened.”

I was swamped by relief. Until she added softly, “For now.”

I bolted upright and stared at the door. For now? For now? What the hell did that mean? Was she going to wait until after dinner to yell at me, or . . .

Or what?

Holy fuck. I was having a heart attack. No, I was letting my imagination run away with me again.

No. I was having a heart attack.

The doorknob turned. She cracked open the door and peeked out at me through a two-inch sliver. Only the left side of her face was visible, and all of it was flushed.

“You mentioned something about clothes,” she said.

I nodded.

“Is the dress I’m wearing appropriate for dinner?”

“Yes. But there are things in the closet you can look through if you’d like to wear something else.”

Her left eyebrow arched.

I said, “I had a few things brought in for you.”

She swung the door open wide. “You shopped for me?”

I couldn’t tell from her expression if she was pleased or thought that was creepy, so I just nodded again.

“How did you know my size?”

Now I knew it would be creepy if I said I’ve spent a lot of time staring at your body, so I went with, “I guessed.”

Her expression soured. “Please tell me you didn’t guess I’m a size two, because if you did, I’ll be wearing this dress for the rest of the weekend.”

Pressing the smile from my lips, I turned and went to the wardrobe. I opened the doors and stepped aside.

Bianca poked her head out the bathroom door and gazed at the wardrobe. It was a big hunk of carved oak, an antique from Italy, I think, and had enough drawers and hanging space for even the most dedicated clothes horse. Intrigued, she walked over and stopped by my side. She stared into the wardrobe for a while, then looked up at me, her face serious.

“There are a lot of clothes in there, Jax.”

“They don’t belong to someone else, if that’s what you’re thinking. I just wanted you to have choices.”

She looked back at the wardrobe and kept looking at it without saying anything.

I wasn’t sure what this reaction meant, but I was getting a little desperate. “You don’t have to wear anything you don’t like, of course. But anything you do like we’ll take home . . . I mean, assuming you want to. Or we can leave it all,” I finished lamely, looking at my shoes.

“This is all for me?” she asked.