4. Chapter 2
Chapter 2
Jackson
My bedroom door barely clicks shut before I shove Killian against it, my teeth grazing his throat as my hands work their way under his shirt. His skin is hot beneath my palms, muscles tensing under my touch. “Fuck, I've missed this.”
“Someone's eager.” His hands slide under my sweater, nails digging into my skin.
“You're the one who kept sending those goddamn thirst traps.” I grab his wrists and pin them above his head, latching onto his neck. The steady thrum of his pulse against my tongue sends heat racing through my veins. “Like that video of you working out shirtless. What kind of asshole does push-ups in just compression shorts?”
“The kind trying to get his boyfriend all worked up. Besides, you're one to talk. All those post-shower selfies—”
I grind against him, smirking when his breath hitches. “Worked though, didn't it? Had you jerking off on video chat every night.”
“Fuck you.”
“That's the plan, golden boy.” My hands slide down to grab his ass as he writhes against me, making those little sounds in the back of his throat that drive me fucking insane.
“Think your sisters enjoyed dinner?” I murmur against his skin, working my way up to his ear. “Emily took enough pictures to fill a damn coffee table book.”
He laughs, then moans when I bite his earlobe. “Pretty sure half of them are already on Instagram. And Lilly's obsessed with that chocolate fountain.”
“Everyone's obsessed with it.” I pull back just enough to yank his shirt off, taking a moment to admire the way the low light plays across his chest. “But right now, I'm more interested in marking this canvas.”
His eyes darken as I unbuckle my belt, sliding it slowly through the loops. “You're such a possessive fuck.”
“You love it.” I spin him, backing him toward my desk, leaving a trail of clothes in our wake. “Been dying to get my belt on that ass again. Make you scream my name.”
His pupils dilate, breath catching. “That a promise or a threat?”
“Both.” I force him around and bend him over my desk, but the movement jostles my mouse, and my computer screen flickers to life.
Shit. Fuck. No.
Killian goes rigid, his eyes fixed on the monitor. On the Crestwood Graduate Programs website I'd left open earlier like a fucking idiot.
The silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating. I step back, my heart hammering against my ribs in a way that has nothing to do with arousal.
“What's going on?” His voice is quiet and careful, like talking to a spooked animal.
I rake a hand through my hair, pacing away from him. My skin feels like it's trying to crawl off my bones. How do I tell him my chest gets tight whenever I think about going to Winnipeg? That sometimes I wake up gasping, phantom plain shooting through my ribs?
That I'm fucking terrified?
“I've been . . .” My voice catches. I clear my throat, hating how weak I sound. "I've been rethinking things. Since the attack.”
His honey-brown eyes soften. “Is that why you tensed up at dinner when my mom mentioned the Jets?”
I nod, dropping onto the edge of my bed. My hands won't stop shaking, so I clench them into fists. “Every time I step into the locker room, I look over my shoulder, waiting for someone to blindside me.”
Killian crosses the room, all of our previous activities forgotten as he sits beside me. “Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because I'm still not sure what I want to do.” I stare down at my hands, at the crescents my nails have carved into my palms. “It's not just the paranoia. It's . . . the guys won't be there. They've always had my back. But next year, I'll be alone with no one to trust.”
“Have you talked to anyone about this?”
“Coach Harper.” I force myself to meet his gaze. “He's been helping me look into other options.”
“Why didn't you come to me?” The hurt in his voice makes my chest ache.
“Because I didn't want you to think less of me. For being scared. For letting that fucker continue to control my life.”
“You asshat.” He grabs my face, fingers firmly holding my jaw. “You think I'd ever think less of you for being human?”
“Well, it sounds ridiculous when you say it like that.”
His grip softens, his thumb brushing over my cheekbone. “You don't have to pretend with me. Not ever.”
I swallow hard and take a deep breath. “I keep having these dreams—about the attack. But in them, no one comes. No one finds me. And I'm just . . . alone. Trapped in that locker room, bleeding out while that psychotic fuck stands over me, laughing.”
Killian's arms wrap around me, pulling me against his chest. I don't fight it. Don't try to maintain my usual bravado. I just let him hold me, my face pressed into his neck.
“You're not alone. You never will be.” He rests his forehead against mine. “And you’re not the only one with fears. We’ll be in different cities, and I'll barely get to see you or touch you. What if . . . what if we don’t make it? What if you meet someone—”
“I’ll mark you permanently.” I nip at his throat, needing to lighten the mood before I completely lose my shit. “Make sure everyone knows who you belong to.”
“Jack—”
“No, listen.” I pull back to look at him. “Whatever I decide about hockey, grad school, or any of it . . . you’re mine. Nothing changes that. No distance, no career choice, nothing.”
His eyes darken, pupils blown wide. “Prove it.”
A growl escapes as I surge forward, claiming his mouth in a bruising kiss. My teeth catch his bottom lip, drawing blood, and he moans into my mouth. The taste of copper on my tongue ignites something primal in me, possessive and hungry. “Two weeks. Time to make up for lost time.”
“You gonna talk about it or be about it?” He smirks, that cocky expression that always makes me want to wreck him.
I shove him back onto the bed, following him down. “Oh, I'm gonna be about it. Hope you're ready to explain all the marks I’m about to leave to your family tomorrow.”
His laugh turns into a moan as I bite down on his collarbone. Whatever comes next, whatever I decide, I know one thing for sure—Killian Blackwell is mine. I'm keeping him.
Even if I must fight my demons to do it.