29. Blakely
TWENTY-NINE
Blakely
The rest of dinner is stilted and awkward. Jackson watches my every bite while I try to ignore the way my insides itch at his perusal. It’s an odd feeling, wanting to spend all of my time with someone who both comforts and exposes me at the same time.
He strips me bare in a way I’ve never experienced, leaving me shivering and vulnerable. Standing without a shield, thousands of arrows waiting to fly through the air and pierce my skin.
I expect him to leave after dinner, but he doesn’t. He stays, watching as my glam team arrives and transforms me into the picture-perfect image that people pay to see.
And when Sierra pulls me aside—heaping on the praise for getting Jackson to tag along—I meet his eyes across the room and nausea rolls through my gut.
I don’t want to use him the way she expects.
The way we had planned.
I want to keep him for myself.
Which is one of the many reasons I’m incredibly nervous to bring him further into my life. Not because he doesn’t belong but because I’m afraid he’ll belong too well.
My dad may think I’m naive—that I need protecting—but I know how this world works. It’s impossible to live and breathe it your entire life and stay blind to the duplicity that pulses through its core.
I know once people get a taste of Jackson’s charm and his picture-perfect face, they’ll crawl hand over foot to be the one who corrupts it. And while I don’t think Jackson is easy prey, I’m not sure there’s anyone who can outlast the temptation of Hollywood once they set their sights on you.
But I don’t want him on my father’s bad side or to think it’s because I don’t want to spend time with him, so even though there’s a foreboding chill that snakes its way around my spine, I don’t put up a fight.
“Okay, B, you know the drill,” Sierra says, glancing up from her phone as she slides into the back of the Maybach.
Clearing my throat and nodding, I turn toward Jackson. “You’ll be okay while I work? Kayla will be here, so you’ll have someone to talk to.” I cringe as I say it, remembering the jealousy that rained down through my chest last time I watched them together.
Jackson winks, his pinky finger stretching out to run along the length of my thigh, electricity dancing off my skin at his touch. Butterflies erupt in my stomach, my heart shifting into overdrive. It’s going to drive me wild having him close enough to feel but too off-limits to touch.
My gaze darts to Sierra and Lennox, making sure neither of them see.
But I should know better.
My eyes clash with Lennox’s and my stomach flips, surging into my throat. His judgment soars across the confined space and scrapes against my skin, waking up the anxiety that lies beneath the surface.
Unease billows in the center of my chest.
He won’t say anything.
The real worry is Sierra. I swing my gaze to hers, my heart jolting against my ribs. But she’s not paying attention, her face buried so deep in her phone, she’s in another universe.
I blow out a deep breath of relief, the knot in my solar plexus untangling, and as it does I realize maybe that’s why I latched on to Sierra so quickly and allowed her to become the center of my life.
Because she doesn’t look close.
She doesn’t push.
With Sierra, what you see is what you get, and that’s how she views the world.
She doesn’t skin me until I bleed, digging up buried secrets like lost treasure. Instead, she adds sparkle and shine as camouflage, keeping the other facets hidden.
Jackson is the first one to come along and search for every angle.
The next few weeks pass before I can blink, Jackson and I falling seamlessly into a new routine.
Time with him moves differently. Faster. And although he’s slotting into place, like he was always meant to be here, it leaves less time for other things. Things I can’t just stop. Like working. Or exercise.
My regime is now relegated to late nights and early mornings, sleep being pushed down the rungs until it’s rare to get more than one or two hours. I’m used to surviving the deprivation, but I can feel my body starting to crumble, my mind desperate for some rest.
The only time I escape the exhaustion is when I’m with Jackson, each moment rife with a heady connection. It strums through the air and vibrates every single part of me, weaving into my heart and making warmth flare between my legs.
There’s just one problem. He won’t touch me.
At least not the way I want. There’s been a few heated moments, and I’ve memorized the outline of his lips, but there’s something holding him back from taking it any further and my need is so thick, I can taste it on my tongue.
As I lay in bed, trying—and failing—to fall asleep, I think back to that night on the beach, when he took control and I shattered in his arms.
My nipples pebble beneath the silk of my camisole at the memory, the matching pajama shorts bunching between my legs as my hand drifts down, slipping beneath the glossy fabric and tracing over my clit.
I close my eyes, trying to emulate the feel of Jackson’s touch. Trying to imagine it’s his fingers ghosting along my center, slowly edging me closer—winding me tighter—until I explode all over his hand.
A shot of desire burns through me, a moan ripping from my throat as my fingers press firmly against my swelling nerves, my shorts growing damp and sticking to the inside of my thighs.
My teeth sink into my lower lip, breaking through the skin. The bite of pain is enough to catapult me over the edge, my body bursting until I see stars, my ears ringing from the force of my orgasm.
Breathing heavily as I come back down, my slippery fingers rest against my pulsing skin as disappointment replaces the temporary blast of pleasure.
Ever since that night, I’ve laid in bed trying to recreate the sensations, but nothing has worked.
I’m desperate to feel that way again. For the chains of anxiety to break away as I fall apart in Jackson’s arms.
Is that how it always feels with another person?
Curiosity nags at my brain and I know I won’t be able to sleep until I find out. So even though it’s three a.m., I jump out of bed and grab my laptop, adrenaline rushing through me as I toss it on the comforter and pull up Google.
Floating feeling during orgasm.
The second I type it in, embarrassment splatters across my insides, dripping down and pooling in my gut. I throw my head in my hands and groan.
What the hell am I even doing?
But even as I think it, my eyes are scanning articles, my mouse scrolling down the page in a frenzy.
Suddenly, everything stops.
My mouse hovers over a single word, a tugging sensation urging me to click.
So I do.