Seven
Asia
I held onto Jackson for dear life.
It wasn’t my proudest moment.
Not by a long shot.
I don’t need anyone.
I had taken care of myself for so long, I almost believed that was true.
But despite all that, I couldn’t let him go.
I didn’t.
Even though he’d killed Jorge, I held Jackson and let the tears flow.
Let the reality hit me.
The world was falling apart.
I knew that without a doubt.
And I was alone.
At that thought, I held him tighter, holding him with a desperation that was as embarrassing as it was undeniable.
Some distant part of me was aware of how good it felt to be in Jackson’s arms.
How right it felt.
Even in this state, I didn’t dare let myself believe I was anything but alone, but in these precious moments in his arms, I wasn’t.
Yes, he was a stranger.
Yes, he was terrifying.
He gave less than a shit about me.
But the way he stood stock still as I squeezed him with all my might felt like a promise.
A vow that he would be there.
That, if nothing else, I could count on him to help me weather the storm we found ourselves in.
The broad breadth of his shoulders, the strength in the arms that tightened around my waist whispered at me to do just that, telling me that just this once, I could trust someone.
I decided then I would try.
But still, this shit, this kind of breakdown?
This wasn’t me.
I was strong.
I always had to be.
But not now.
For now, I held him even tighter, letting myself cry harder.
His solid body felt like the best kind of anchor.
Felt like the only thing that kept me from slipping into the nightmare I hadn’t even begun to understand.
I held onto Jackson like he was the last solid thing in a crumbling world.
Because maybe he was.
I should haven been ashamed of how tightly I clung to him, ashamed of the tears soaking into his shirt.
But for once, I couldn’t find it in me to care.
I was trembling, hollowed out, every breath rough and ragged.
Jackson tangled his fingers in my braids and rested his hand at the nape of my neck, the touch shockingly intimate.
But not nearly as intimate as the way he looked into my eyes, studying me, seeming to peer into my soul .
I blinked and used the motion to break his gaze without losing face.
I saw his slight frown, but I didn’t look up.
Then, he fisted my hair so tightly, I gasped.
The sharp pain was grounding and pulled me from the brink.
Then he tilted my head back, forcing me to look in his eyes again.
That was when I saw it.
Not just desire.
Not just anger.
Something darker.
Something that looked like possession.
He traced my bottom lip with his rough, calloused thumb as he studied me. “You’re still scared.”
“Yes,” I whispered, hating how fragile I sounded.
A cruel smile twisted his lips. “Good.”
Then he crushed his mouth to mine.
It was a savage, bruising kiss, more punishment than caress.
His tongue invaded my mouth, demanding I open for him, feasting on my fear.
The low thrum between my legs, something I tried to attribute to fear, became insistent, pulsing hot and dark, making it impossible for me to ignore how much I wanted this.
When he pulled back, I was breathless, dazed.
My pulse galloped under my skin, and I felt jittery, exposed.
But something, maybe pride, wouldn’t let me look away.
He whispered demand rumbled out of his throat. “Tell me you want this.”
“Jackson—”
He tightened his grip on my hair again, sending a delicious pain sparking across my scalp. “My name is Jack.” He pulled harder. “Say it.”
I swallowed.
But I didn’t lie. “I want this.”
He wasn’t satisfied. “Want what?”
“You,” I whispered, shame blooming hot across my chest.
His low groan vibrated through me. Then he pressed me back against the table, his hands on either side of me, caging me in, his gaze never leaving mine.
“You’re a nice girl. Clean,” he growled, his voice dark silk and gravel as his thumb roamed over my skin in erratic little patterns that had me teetering on the edge. “I want to get you dirty. You gonna let me?”
My breath came in shallow pants.
But I still didn’t lie.
“Yes.”
A ruthless sound left him.
Then his mouth crashed to mine again, devouring, claiming, as he slid his hand up my thigh.
Even through my pants, his touch was searing. Before I could process, he had my pants open and down and rubbed those same deliciously maddening patterns against my thick thighs.
Then he moved his hands up and hooked his thumbs into my sensible cotton panties, the ones I’d been excited to buy because they came with a bonus pair.
I certainly hadn’t expected a dangerous stranger to rip them off of me, but then again, today was the day for firsts.
The sound of my underwear ripping was loud in the quiet room and so shamefully erotic my pussy clenched when I heard it .
He cupped me then and slid finger along my slit. “Fuck, you’re wet already.”
“I hate you,” I whispered, the words more a plea than a declaration.
“You should, but you’ll fucking love this,” he said, his lips tracing my neck.
Before I could fire back a quippy comeback, he pushed a finger deep inside.
Didn’t give me a second to breathe before adding another.
A raw moan was ripped from throat when he scissored his fingers and then curved them, touching that spot that no one had ever been able to reach.
“Quiet, Counselor. Don’t want them to hear how good I’m fucking you,” he said.
Before I could respond, he stole one more savage kiss and then pulled back and watched himself fuck me with his fingers.
I whimpered when he added another finger, but he didn’t relent. “That’s right. Take it,” he demanded as he pushed his fingers as deep as they could go.
I clutched his shoulders and rocked my hips. My legs shook, heat coiling low and tight .
“Please—”
He grabbed my hair again, squeezing to the point of pain again. “Gonna come already? You that needy for me?”
A sob caught in my chest. “Yes, yes?—”
He stilled, and I cried out in protest. “Then fucking look at me while you do it.”
My eyes flew open, locking on his, and the orgasm slammed into me, blinding, brutal.
I cried out, my body convulsing around his fingers, and he groaned, burying his face in my neck.
“Good girl,” he said as me stroked my hair, almost tender now, but not quite.
Then I heard the low snick of his zipper, feeling the hot thick length of him sandwiched between my lips. He rocked his hips, the mushroom tip of his cock thumping against my clit.
“Oh God—” I moaned as he rocked against me.
His hands were on my hips now, squeezing the ample flesh there tight enough to bruise.
“So fucking wet,” he rasped, forehead pressed to mine.
My pussy clenched every time he passed my entrance.
I wanted him inside .
There was no way to deny it, especially not when I looked down and saw his thick shaft glistening with my juices.
“Fuck!” I yelped when he hit my clit just so and sent me flying apart again.
He squeezed even tighter and then stilled, his big body racked with tremors as he painted my thighs with rope after rope of his cum.
A tear slipped out of my eye.
He caught it with his thumb, smearing it across my cheek.
Then he kissed me.
Slowly, deeply.
Like I was his.