CHAPTER 27 DELILAH
DELILAH
“You need to relax,” I say, eyes heavy, shivering despite the four quilts piled on top of me. There’s an unrelenting boulder behind me beneath the blankets, his arm like a harness over my waist.
“I am relaxed,” Jackson grumbles, right under my ear. He’s angry, for some reason, and I’m too tired to deal with it.
“I put on the snow pants. I don’t know what you’re so mad about.”
We spent the rest of the afternoon helping Lottie out around the lodge.
Well, Jackson did. He delivered space heaters to rooms and salted the sidewalks while I talked to my new best friend Dustin—Dusty, to his friends—in the café.
He had one of those portable coffeemakers that you use when camping. He made me my very own cup of coffee.
I think Jackson is still jealous over that cup of coffee.
“I’m not mad about the snow pants.”
“Then what are you mad about?”
Jackson sighs, his knees bumping up against mine. “You’re shivering.”
I turn to look at him over my shoulder. All I can make out of him is the curve of his jaw and the straight line of his nose. His glasses are folded up on the nightstand next to my emergency Swedish Fish.
Another shiver wracks my body. “I’m not trying to,” I whisper. “It’s cold, Jackson.”
The room quickly descended into cold and uncomfortable as soon as the sun set, the massive window leeching all the warmth from the space. The portable space heater is doing its best, but it’s negative fifteen out there.
Jackson makes another low, disgruntled sound. “I know it is, Delilah.”
I huff and turn back on my side, trying to ignore that hand that feels like an ice block on my hip. He’s not even holding me.
Another furious shiver starts at my shoulders and trips down my spine until I’m shivering into the blankets, both hands curled into fists. I wish I could tuck myself into a shell and hide away until the power comes on. Generate my own warmth.
Jackson sighs behind me and shifts his hand, ice-cold fingertips slipping under the hem of the oversized sweater he forced over my head. I squeak when he touches the bare skin of my belly, kicking my legs wildly when he presses his entire palm right above my belly button.
“What are you doing?” I whisper-hiss.
“Trying not to rupture an organ,” he grunts. “Stop kicking me.” He drags my body into his. “Be still,” he orders.
My body goes liquid and lax at the demand in his voice. Okay, I think faintly. I guess that’s a thing. I let him arrange me however he pleases, my body tucked tight to his, his arm under my sweater and his face in my neck.
“What are you doing?” I ask again, this time in a whisper.
“I can’t stand you being cold.”
“I’m not doing it on purpose, I’m—”
“That wasn’t a complaint, Delilah.” His cold nose presses against the back of my neck.
A knot tightens in my belly, even though I don’t really understand what he’s saying. Whatever it is, my body seems to get it well enough.
“Want you to be warm,” Jackson mumbles, his palm easing up and then down my belly. He settles it low, right at the waistband of my ridiculous snow pants, and everything pulls tight. “Want to be the one who makes you coffee,” he adds in a grumble.
I flop backward. Jackson’s hand shifts. “I knew you were mad about the coffee.”
He’s silent for the stretch of two heartbeats. “He didn’t even make it the way you like it.”
“Jackson. It was coffee. I wasn’t going to look the gift horse in the mouth.”
“Yeah, well, I wanted to kick the gift horse.” He grumbles some more. “He flirted with you for the better part of a half hour.”
I grin, delighted. “He did not!”
“He did.”
“Jackson, I’m pretty sure he’s, like, sixty-eight years old. We were talking about his wife. His grandkids.”
His shoulders rise and then fall. “I didn’t know that.”
“Well, now you do.” I curl back on my side, the thrill of Jackson’s jealousy warming me from the inside out. I settle back into his grip. “You know, I read in a survival pamphlet once that skin-to-skin contact acts like a natural heating blanket.”
Jackson’s pause is long. “Why were you reading a survival pamphlet?”
His hand drifts back up, knuckles brushing beneath my breasts. I don’t know if it’s a conscious choice, but I’m acutely aware of everywhere he’s not touching me. Everywhere I want him to be.
“I like to be prepared for things,” I say, distracted, mentally willing his hand two inches higher.
“Like . . . what? What do you need to survive in Baltimore?”
“Apparently, freezing to death in a hotel room,” I laugh. I wiggle my hips back into the cradle of his and he grunts. “Take off your shirt, Jackson. It might save our lives.”
Jackson snorts. “We’re not in danger of dying in here— Shit. Delilah.”
I toss my sweater across the room, quickly followed by the T-shirt I had on underneath.
I keep the snow pants on, because there’s no way that won’t be a logistical nightmare.
But the room is freezing in just my pale pink cotton bra, so I quickly duck back beneath the covers, pulling them to my chin.
“Take off your shirt, Jackson,” I order again, my teeth chattering.
He’s frozen behind me, not moving an inch.
“Unless you don’t want to,” I add awkwardly.
I try to swallow around the horseshoe of mortification that is lodged at the base of my throat.
“In which case it probably would be for the best if we both pretend we’ve fallen into an immediate and deep sleep.
A coma, maybe. Because I plan on dying of embarrassment and would like to be left to my own devices for that. ”
The bed dips, fabric rustles, and Jackson lets out a bone-deep sigh. A moment later he’s back beneath the covers, his chest pressed firmly against my back.
His bare chest. Against my bare back.
“You know exactly how to push me,” he rumbles. It’s delicious, how he sounds when he’s torn between frustrated, amused, and the dark edge of something else. Something I want to peel away like a candy wrapper. Nibble at until it melts in my mouth.
I hide my grin in my pillow. “Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“No,” I laugh. “I’m not.” I wiggle my body into his. “I feel warmer already.”
“Yeah?” Jackson’s palm slides over my side, chafing up and down. “How about now?”
“Mm,” I hum. “Good.”
“And this?” His hand drifts, back to my belly, palm going up, up, up until it’s flat between my breasts. Right where my heart is pounding in my chest. He rubs gently with his thumb. “Warmer, now?”
“Yeah,” I breathe. He noses my hair away from my neck and presses a soft kiss against the knob of my spine.
I am aware of all the places we’re tucked neatly together.
How my breathing slows only for my heart to beat faster.
His hand shifts and his finger edges under the top of my bra, tracing the curve of my breast. My nipples tighten and I arch my back, trying to force his touch lower, but he keeps his hands perfectly, frustratingly polite.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, a low murmur right below my ear.
My body feels like it’s vibrating, twisted so tight with anticipation I might snap.
But I’m stubborn, and as much as I like pushing Jackson, I don’t think I want to push with this. I want it to be his choice. Whatever happens next.
“Delilah,” he whispers. “What is it?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re sure?” he asks. His finger ghosts another light touch, just beneath the strap of my bra this time.
I clench my teeth so tight they click together.
“You’re messing with me,” I accuse.
I can feel his smile against the back of my neck. “Maybe.”
I turn and try to glance at him over my shoulder. All I can see of him is the curve of his ear and some rogue, messy bedhead. The very edge of his shit-eating grin.
“I don’t like this version of you,” I huff.
He laughs, his arm tightening around my waist. “Which version is that?”
“The one where you don’t follow through.”
He hums behind me and gently guides my bra strap over my shoulder. “Did you want me to touch you, Delilah?”
“Please,” I all but beg.
A rough grunt punches out of him and he pushes his hand down, fingers flexing around the heavy curve of my breast. “That’s what I wanted,” he whispers against the delicate skin at the back of my neck. “For you to ask.” His thumb strokes over my nipple, and a tight little whine hitches in my throat.
“Well,” I arch back, reaching behind me to thread my fingers through his hair, “maybe mention that next time.”
“Noted,” he says, still swiping lazily with his thumb. It’s a single point of intentional contact, but I swear I’ve never been more turned on in my life.
“That’s how it’s going to be with us, isn’t it?” he asks. “We’ll take care of each other. Better than anyone else.”
I nod.
“You’re so soft,” he tells me, his hips pressing into the curve of my ass. Rocking, once, like he can’t quite help himself. He stills with another pained grunt, hand squeezing.
“How much am I allowed to take, Delilah?” His thumb inches up and traces a delicate path along the top of my breast. “How much will you let me get away with before you start to have regrets?”
I shake my head, frantic. Every inch of me is pulsing. I want him so much. “No regrets. We promised each other.”
He peels the cup of my bra away, tucking it beneath my breast. I try to help, to slip my arm out of the strap, but Jackson stills me with his other hand at my hip.
“No,” he says. “Leave it. Like this, you look—” He has his chin hooked over my shoulder, staring down at the shadows of my curves beneath the blanket. I notice the glint of black just above his ear. The only part of him I can see clearly.
“You put your glasses back on.”
He nods. “I want to be able to see you.”
He repeats the same methodical process on the other side of my bra, my bare breast spilling free, held up by the material underneath. Jackson lets out a slow exhale. Another rock of his hips against my ass.