Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Ava
For the fifth morning in a row, I wake up alone in Jackson’s bed.
The sheets are cold and untouched on his side.
He hasn’t slept here once since dragging me to this place, only slipping in and out of the bedroom like a ghost to grab clothes or brush his teeth.
And the question gnaws at me: where does he sleep, and who is he sleeping with? Is he with another girl?
Jealousy rears its ugly head, but I quickly push it away. Honestly, it’s better this way. Maybe now that he’s gotten what he wants from me, he’s lost interest. And if he’s moved on to someone else, then I should be thankful, right?
So tell me why this tight feeling in my stomach doesn’t feel like gratitude. It feels more like…envy.
At night, in that brief moment between wakefulness and sleep, I catch myself thinking about him, remembering the feel of his fingertips brushing across my skin, or the way his lips pull every last ounce of breath from my lungs…
He’s always had a crazy gravitational pull over me.
Not just attraction, but something deeper, something elemental, like the university itself dragging me back into his orbit.
I’ve tried to find that same intensity with other guys, with Chase, but nothing could ever quite replicate the way he consumed me.
It’s infuriating, honestly. How can someone so cruel, so infuriatingly indifferent, make my pulse race just by walking into the room? Something is seriously wrong with me.
A sliver of light filters in through a crack in the curtains.
It’s morning, and I’m already getting used to the rhythm of the house.
People won’t start stirring for at least another hour.
But I know I’ll see Jackson at some point, and the second his eyes lock on mine, that same treacherous tingle will pulse through my clit. My body betrays me every damn time.
With a huff, I fling the thick comforter off my body, then pull my panties down my thighs and toss them aside. Rubbing a quick one out will take the edge off, and then maybe I won’t be so distracted when Jackson walks into the room.
Spreading my thighs, I push my fingers into my channel, all the while replaying the same scene in my head—Jackson fucking me in the ceremony room, pushing his cock into me, unapologetically claiming me in front of everyone.
I know it’s fucked up. I know I shouldn’t be turned on by such a blatant display of cruelty, but there’s just something about that dark look in his eye that never fails to make my clit pulse.
I need some serious therapy. Too bad I can’t fucking afford it.
So I do the next best thing and surrender to the fucked up fantasy playing on repeat inside my head, just praying it’ll scratch the itch that’s been eating me alive for the past several days.
As my fingers push in deeper, my hips lift off the mattress, and I twist into the pressure that’s already building inside me.
A carousel of images flicks through my mind—Jackson’s toned body, his huge cock, veins twisting around the shaft like roots crawling across marble.
That fierce, monstrous look he gets when he’s close to climaxing. ..
“Mmm,” I moan. I’m so wet that I can’t get much traction. My pulse beats rapidly in my ears, and it’s all I can hear. That, and the sound of each harsh breath as it pushes past my lips.
Usually, I can get myself off in less than a minute—but today, I deliberately slow my pace and try to draw the pleasure out. Because the more intense the orgasm, the deeper the satisfaction, and the less Jackson will tempt me.
My clit is so sensitive, I’m already teetering on the edge of oblivion, so I squeeze my eyes shut and bite my bottom lip, holding back. The ache builds anyway, coiling tighter with every drag of pressure, and I know it’s only a matter of time before I break.
Suddenly, a deep chuckle rips me out of my little fantasy.
My hand stills, my eyes fly open, and I’m met with my worst nightmare.
Jackson is leaning against the bedpost, arms crossed over his chest, his gaze drifting lazily from my hand—which is still buried between my thighs—and all the way up my body, before finally locking on my face.
“Morning, wife,” he says with a smirk. “Need a hand, or…a cock?”
“What the fuck?” I slam my thighs closed and sit up, heat scorching my cheeks. “The door was locked.”
“This is my bedroom, Doe-Eyes.” He holds up an old skeleton key. “I can get in whenever I want.”
Right. Of course. It was naive of me to assume I had any degree of privacy here, especially with Jackson around. Somehow, he manages to be everywhere, all at once.
Squaring my shoulders, I glare at him. Honestly, I’m less angry at him for waltzing into his own bedroom, and more angry at the fact that he’s been sleeping God-knows-where for the past several nights.
“Well, get whatever you came for, and leave,” I say, giving voice to the frustration I’ve been feeling for days. “I’m clearly busy here.”
His heated gaze travels down my body with deliberate slowness. “Clearly.” Air catches in my lungs as he drops his arms and takes a couple of steps toward me. “You don’t want me to leave. Not really.”
Wow. The ego on this one.
“Don’t tell me what I want,” I snap. “You don’t know me as well as you think you do, Jackson.”
He leans forward and grabs my chin. “Should prove just how fucking wrong that statement is?”
A trickle of awareness slithers down my spine, and I pull in a sharp breath. His blunt fingernails pinch my skin, his grip so tight, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s drawn blood. But I’ll be fucking damned if I show even a hint of discomfort.
“Why can’t you just leave me alone?” I ask, while looking into his cold green eyes. Once, I thought those eyes were beautiful and turbulent, like the ocean. Now, all I see is ice.
“Isn’t that what I’ve been doing? You’ve had this room, my bed, all to yourself…”
I swallow past the tightness in my throat. “Where have you been sleeping?” The question is out before I can talk myself out of asking it…
Listen, I know it’s hypocritical to complain about him not leaving me alone while also being pissed he’s sleeping somewhere else, but…shit, I don’t know. My emotions are all over the place. I’m not even trying to make sense of them, at this point.
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Why, baby? Worried I’m fucking someone else?”
My heart is completely still, like a stone in my chest. “Are you?”
His mouth curves, cruel and amused. “Why would I waste time riding a pony when I own a thoroughbred?”
I twist my head to the side and press my lips together. Did he just compare me to a horse? Like, seriously?
I try to tug my face out of his grip, but that only causes him to hold on tighter. “First, and foremost, don’t ever compare me to a horse again,” I say, seething. “Second, you don’t own me, Jackson. You’ve never owned me.”
He pulls my face closer, so I’m forced to the edge of the mattress. His expression lingers between anger and softness, somewhere in that space where it could go either way.
“We both know I’ve owned you from the second our eyes first met, Ava.” His voice comes out raw, barely above a whisper. “Just like you’ve owned me.”
Those last words throw me completely, and I blink at him. Is the King of the World actually admitting that someone has power over him? He’s such a force, always in control, I don’t know whether to believe him or not.
“A person can’t be owned.”
Not that I’m the expert on love or relationships.
“Oh, no?”
His grip on my face doesn’t loosen as he eases me down, guiding me until I’m flat on my back. I know what’s about to happen, and I hate myself for not fighting it. I could scream. I could lash out. But I don’t. I just lie here, looking up to him, waiting to see what he does next.
“Open your legs,” he says, his voice hard, all that vulnerability from five seconds ago completely gone.
My knees stay bent, clamped together until my thigh muscles burn. Maybe I’m not fighting back, but I’m not giving in easily, either.
With a large hand on each knee, he pries my legs open. I try to sit up and push him away with my foot, but he quickly steps between my open thighs and pins me down with the weight of his body.
My fingers are splayed across his chest. I try to squirm out from under him, but he’s so big and so heavy, my efforts are a joke. “Fuck you, Jackson,” I push out.
He buries his nose in my hair and inhales deeply. “God, I need you like I need air…”
I freeze. Wait, what? Was that another admission? And was it a slip, or was it intentional? Honestly, Jackson has always been calculated. Nothing happens by accident in his world.
“Why do I get the feeling you say that to all your girls?” I say with more venom than I intended.
He pulls back a little and smiles down at me. “Mmm, baby. Is that jealousy I hear?”
“Hardly,” I scoff, and twist my head so I don’t have to look at his fuck-me face.
“Good,” he says with a low chuckle. “Because they should be jealous of you, they just don’t know it.”
“Jealous of me…” I repeat, my voice cracking. Tingles sweep through my body, making it impossible to focus. “Why? You and I aren’t anything.”
The cold pendant around my neck reminds me that technically, that statement isn’t true. I’m his wife, so I guess we are something to each other. But his reason for marrying me was about control, not feelings. So in my book, our “marriage” doesn’t count as us being together.
“Because you’ve done what they couldn’t…
” His hand curves over my breast through the thin fabric of my T-shirt, the pad of his thumb grazing my nipple until it stiffens.
“Somehow you got past all my walls and crawled right under my skin. You make me feel something,” he says, his voice filled with anger.
The anger confuses me. It’s like I’ve committed some kind of crime by making him feel like an actual human.
“Am I supposed to take that as a compliment?” I choke out, trying desperately to ignore my already pulsing clit.
He doesn’t respond at all. Instead, he straightens and takes several steps back. My legs twitch involuntarily, muscles tensing to snap shut, but his hand catches my knee.
“Don’t.” The word comes out rough, barely controlled. He flicks his chin. “Take your shirt off.”
That’s when real fear slams into me. It’s not the sex or the intimacy that freaks me out.
It’s the idea that he’d see me fully naked for the first time in three fucking years.
So many things have changed since then. So.
Many. Things. I’m not the same girl he knew back then, and my skin, my body, reflects that.
“Please don’t make me,” I say, my voice embarrassingly small.
My heart is beating so fast, it’s all I can focus on. I can’t even pretend to be brave right now. He’s a surfer with the frame of a linebacker, and he’s a million times stronger than me. We both know he could force me to do anything he wants.
Those green eyes narrow skeptically. “I’ve seen you naked, Ava. More times than I can count. The shape of your body is seared into my fucking brain.”
Okay, but that was then. This is now. And even when he saw me during the marriage/initiation ceremony, I was wearing a cloak, and it was dark. There’s no way he saw all of me.
His heated gaze flicks over my body. And I know what he sees beneath my oversized T-shirt: hips that are slightly wider, breasts that are slightly heavier, and about fifteen extra pounds.
“I’m not seventeen anymore.”
There’s an uncomfortable stretch of silence. When he finally speaks, his voice is like granite. “Your body is mine, Ava. You can’t hide yourself from me.”
My mind scrambles for excuses, but my thoughts are a jumble. Panic is starting to set in, which is no good, because the more he senses my fear, the more curious he’s going to be about what I’m hiding.
I have to chill out. I have to. There’s no other choice.
With a strength I pull from the depths of my fucking soul, I close my eyes and draw in a deep, semi-calming breath. My heart is still thumping against my ribs like an over-caffeinated jackrabbit, but after a few seconds, I feel slightly better. Slightly.
When I open my eyes, he’s staring at me—not with compassion, or curiosity.
His expression is flat, coldly indifferent.
Like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, there are two sides to Jackson McKnight—cold, and calculated, but also soft, and vulnerable.
Sometimes wonder if the vulnerable part of him bled out on that kitchen floor three years ago.
“Take your shirt off, Ava,” he repeats slowly, adding my name, like he’s scolding a child who’s throwing a tantrum on the supermarket floor.
Shit. He’s not backing down, and I can’t help but wonder, how much longer can I fight a battle I’m already losing?