And he, thank god, wants me.
Still inside me, he rolls onto his back so that I am straddling him, impaled on his cock, my body still sensitive from the last climax. “My turn, sweetheart,” he says, as he takes my hips and guides me up and down as he pumps into me, using his control over my rise and fall to thrust deeper and deeper, until he finally explodes inside me, and I watch as he goes over the edge, and am humbled by the pleasure and wonder I see on the face of this man I love.
When the last tremors subside and his body relaxes, I lean forward so that my breasts press against his abdomen and my cheek rests against his chest. He is warm, like a furnace, and his scent is intoxicating. I am tired, sated, but I can’t resist the urge to tease his nipple with my tongue.
When I do, he laughs, then quickly flips me so that we change positions and he is over me. “Someone’s energetic,” I tease.
“Someone had a nice long nap.” He lifts his eyebrows. “Care to go again?”
“Always,” I say, meaning it. “But I think we should probably eat. What time is it?”
“Late. Early. I don’t know.” He props himself up on an elbow and grabs his phone off my bedside table. “Late. We slept all day.”
“Makes sense. We were up all night.”
He pulls himself up to a sitting position, then leans his back against my headboard as he uses his phone to order pizza. He doesn’t bother to cover himself with a sheet, and he isn’t the least bit self-conscious. Nor does he seem to be aware of the fact that—as the most incredible hunk of maleness that I have ever seen—he is entirely distracting me. His hard abs, his muscled arms. That tight V of muscle that some men have that traces the way from waist to groin, and his still quite impressive, though no longer fully erect, penis.
In my current state of arousal, even the bruises that mar his body are sexy, and I can’t help but wonder if this isn’t some sort of anthropological thing. The young woman attracted to the male in the tribe with the visible marks that prove he is capable of protecting her.
He clears his throat.
I realize that not only is he no longer on the phone, but that I have been staring at his waist—okay, at his cock—and lift my head sheepishly.
“Like what you see?”
“Just checking out what belongs to me,” I say boldly.
“Good answer. Come here.”
I’ve been wrapped in the sheet, but he pulls me free of it so that I am tucked in naked beside him. It seems decadent, somehow. Spending the day naked in bed. Or it does until he bends over to kiss my forehead and says, “I’m sorry to have kept you up all night. I didn’t intend to worry you. Honestly, I didn’t intend anything at all.”
I sit up, then grab for the sheet and wrap it around me again. If he asks, I’ll say that I am cold. But the truth is that I just feel a little bit exposed.
I don’t plan to say anything, but then I hear the words and realize that they’ve come out of my mouth. “I thought you were mad at me. I thought that’s why you left.”
“Mad?” He looks so confused that I immediately relax, because no verbal denial could be more reassuring. “Oh, baby, no. I probably could have ripped the great Damien Stark to shreds for making you do that—and it was his face I saw on every man I went up against in the ring—so I was mad, yes. But not at you.”
He reaches for me, sheet and all, and once again pulls me close. I curl against him, and the world seems to right itself again.
“Not at you,” he repeats. “At Damien.”
“I know. I’m mad at him, too,” I admit. I don’t say that I understand why Damien did it. Right now, what Jackson needs is solidarity.
“For that matter, I’m mad at my father, too. And we might as well add my mother to the equation.” He grimaces. “Although you’d think I’d know by now that getting mad isn’t even worth the effort. My whole life has been run by Damien’s needs and whims. I don’t know why now would be any different.”
“You’ve never really told me about your family,” I say softly. “Not much more than the big picture, anyway.”
“It’s hardly a story worthy of Disney,” he says wryly. “But I suppose it has dramatic potential.” He tilts his head back. “I told you I’m a bastard, and not just of the asshole variety?”
I make a face. “Very funny. You told me that your dad was married.”
“To Damien’s mother. But they didn’t have any kids when Jeremiah met my mom, about a year before I was born. Her name’s Penny, by the way.”