Chapter 14
Ingrid
The next week moves painfully slow, and I do what I do best–throw myself into work.
It’s not just the concerts, I work my way into some studio time to lay down the new songs I’ve been working on.
We update the choreography to make sure the show stays fresh.
I make a stop at the Children’s Hospital to sign autographs and hand out merch.
That day is exhausting, and at the end of it, I talk to Jefferson for three hours, just for a slice of goodness in an otherwise tough day.
Our calls have started carrying a new weight–the intensity of our attraction to one another palpable through the line.
I’m pretty sure we both get off the call frustrated, pent-up sexual tension bubbling at the surface.
He’s kind, though. Understanding I can’t put something like that into the ether.
It could ruin me, and in return, ruin us.
Whatever we are.
They’re flying down tonight, and I’d made sure they had a suite of rooms at the same hotel–it’s easier than shuttling them back and forth. Or that’s what I tell myself. I want him close. Even if I don’t get to see him as much as I want to, I want him nearby.
It’s late when their plane gets in, and I don’t expect to see him. My night’s been nothing but vocal warmups, emails, and a hot shower I never got around to taking.
So when Marv buzzes the suite and asks if I’m available for a visitor, I almost say no.
Almost.
The way he pauses, just a beat too long, makes my stomach twist.
“It’s him, isn’t it?” I ask.
Marv is like a big brother on steroids. Fiercely protective. Highly suspicious. The wall you have to get through to get to me. When he says, “Yep,” without a lecture, I know he approves.
“Send him up,” I say, even though my pulse is hammering and I have no business letting him see me like this.
The second the line goes dead, I bolt for the mirror.
Casual mess–that’s what’s staring back at me.
Ponytail that’s half-falling out, leggings that have seen better days, and a plain t-shirt that screams I gave up hours ago.
My eyeliner is smudged from rubbing my eyes too much.
This is not the outfit you wear when six-foot-five of dangerous temptation shows up at your hotel door.
A knock.
Too soon. Way too soon.
I swallow hard, try to pat down my hair, and open the door.
There he is. Jefferson Parks. Dimple in his cheek, blond hair that feathers back from his annoyingly perfect, chiseled face, with eyes like polished steel cutting straight through me. He fills the doorway in a way that makes the whole suite feel small.
And then the nerves I’ve been carrying all week, the what-ifs, the should-I-even-do-this, evaporate.
Because he doesn’t hesitate. Not even a beat.
The door shuts behind him, and before I can think, before I can breathe, his mouth is on mine.
It’s hard, almost desperate, like he’s been holding back since the second he scrawled that stupid note and taped it to his locker.
Jesus, he’s good at this. I feel the kiss everywhere.
In my blood. Rushing through my veins. Deep in my lower belly.
His hands are on me instantly, bracketing my face, thumbs grazing my jaw, claiming the right to touch me.
He tilts my head back and kisses me like there was never a question of whether I’d let him in.
Or maybe, if he waited for permission, I’d say no, so he’s taking the risk.
My fingers fist in his shirt before I even realize I’ve moved, tugging him closer, grounding myself in the sheer size of him. Six-foot-five of hockey enforcer muscle caging me in, chest solid against mine, heat radiating off him like he’s been carrying this burn around for weeks.
Whatever this is–it’s fire, it’s gasoline, blazing hot and out of control.
I can’t get enough.
The taste of him is heat and mint, sharp and addictive, his lips dragging across mine with a hunger that pulls me under before I can think about resurfacing.
He kisses like he plays–fast, dangerous, like every second is sudden death overtime.
No hesitation. No breaks. Just full tilt until the buzzer.
My back hits the wall with a soft thud, and I don’t care. I don’t care that my hair’s a mess, that I’m in leggings and a t-shirt, that I swore to myself I’d be careful with him. I don’t care that I can already hear Madison’s warnings screaming in my head. None of it matters.
What matters is the way his breath shudders when I kiss him back, the sound that escapes him when my lips part and his tongue slides against mine, deep and claiming. He makes a low, rough noise in his chest, one that vibrates straight through me, leaving my knees weak.
I’m lost. Completely, stupidly lost. And the worst part is that I don’t want to be found.
When we finally pull apart, finally take a breath, he drops his forehead to mine and says, “Holy fuck, Angel, I’ve been wanting to do that for weeks.”
It’s not just his words that spin me. It’s the thick line of his erection straining down his leg as he presses into me, the heat of his body soaking into mine.
He makes no effort to hide it, confident and at ease with his body and his wants.
Hard muscle flexes under my palms, solid and unyielding, and all I can think is how badly I want to peel that shirt away.
To see his skin, to taste every inch, to memorize him the way I’ve memorized lyrics.
“Where’s everyone else?” I manage, though my voice is wrecked, shaky from the kiss. His big hands are still clamped to my waist, fingers digging like he’s scared I might vanish.
“Don’t know, don’t care,” he states, his tone as firm as the steel-gray of his eyes. They flash with a glimmer of something feral.
That’s all it takes. A heartbeat later, I’m climbing him like he’s the only safe place in the world, my legs wrapping around his waist. He catches me without hesitation, like it’s second nature, his mouth crashing back to mine.
The kiss turns wild, messy, his tongue stroking against mine with a hunger that leaves me trembling. He’s everywhere–his hands gripping my thighs, his chest pressed tight to mine, his breath ragged in my ear when he tears away just long enough to whisper, “You drive me fucking insane.”
I bite his jaw, desperate for more. He jerks me higher, grinding against me in a rhythm that makes my head fall back. A sound tears from my throat, unfiltered, and his answering groan vibrates straight through my body.
We’re on the edge of something here, something that could ruin both of us if we let it go too far.
And I don’t care. Not when he kisses me like I’m oxygen.
Not when his body feels like the only thing tethering me to the ground.
I fist the back of his shaggy blond hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan, and the sound goes straight between my legs.
Every grind of his hips drags heat through me, every press of his body stoking the ache.
I swore I’d be more careful the next time: with my heart and body. With my soul.
But those thoughts are lost when my shirt rides up, his hands spreading across my bare waist, hot and callused, moving like he’s memorizing me.
I arch into him, desperate, my chest pressed to his, nipples hard against cotton.
His eyes burn down into mine, like he’s asking for permission and taking it all in the same second.
“Jefferson…” My voice is breathless, a warning, a prayer.
“I know,” he says, forehead pressed to mine, hips rolling once more before he stills. His restraint is a thin thread, trembling between us. “I know, but I can’t stop touching you.”
Neither can I.
His hands trace slowly over my sides, the tips of his fingers drawing tiny circles that leave sparks in their wake.
“Can I touch you?” he asks, voice raw. “Can I make you fall apart again?”
The ask is hotter than anything that’s ever happened to me. The way he hands control back over to me, like he knows how much I need it.
I nod, and he eases me across the room until my backside hits the desk.
His hands are gentle but insistent, sliding beneath the waistband of my leggings.
He doesn’t rush; he takes his time exposing one leg and then the other.
His mouth hovers near my ear, whispering encouragement, teasing little moans, and each one twists something deep inside me.
He lifts me up on the desk, wedging himself between my knees. “Let’s see how wet you are for me.”
When he bends before me, I can feel his presence is completely different from before.
He’s no longer feral, he’s grounded, patient, intent.
My panties come off, a slow drag that feels excruciating.
His hands split me apart, pushing my thighs and exposing myself to him.
The way he looks at me, my skin crackles and flares, it’s like a man seeing the universe for the first time.
“Goddamn, Ingrid.”
“What?” I ask, rising up, horrified.
He runs a finger down my slit. “Prettiest fucking pussy I’ve ever seen.”
The declaration is insane, and coming from another man I may have laughed in his face. But Jefferson Parks looks like a starving man in front of a buffet.
He spreads me apart with his fingers and then licks.
I fall back on my hands, letting him meet me in the most exquisite way. Slow, deliberate strokes, circling, tracing, teasing every sensitive nerve. I cry out softly, and he hums against me, like he’s tasting the sound, drinking it in.
His fingers join in, gentle but insistent, coaxing me higher and higher.
He watches every expression, every twitch of my body, every hitch in my breathing, adjusting and responding to my reactions.
My chest rises and falls–my breath something foreign and slightly humiliating.
My nipples peak, every nerve ending on fire.
I’m lost in the sensation, in the deliberate, attentive rhythm of his mouth and hands.