23. Ozzy #2
But he doesn’t reach for my neck. He kneels in front of me instead, gently taking my wrist. With the care of someone handling something priceless, he threads the necklace around my wrist like a bracelet and fastens the clasp.
“There,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb over my skin. “Right where you can see it. Right where it belongs.”
The silver glints against my arm. The poppy sits just above the pulse point on my wrist. “Thank you,” I whisper. “I love it.”
“Oh…” He seems almost shocked. “Yeah, you’re welcome.” There is an awkward, quiet moment between us before I take a deep breath and set the box down.
“Can I kiss you?” I nearly blurt out. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man’s entire demeanor change so quickly.
Jackson’s face softens—no, it melts. All the tension, all the guilt and grief, slips off his features like water and are replaced by something so open, so reverent, it knocks the breath right out of me.
“Always,” he answers, and that one word—God, it doesn’t feel small. It feels like a promise.
I rise up on my toes and kiss him, tentative at first. But quickly, his lips part and his mouth takes mine like he’s been waiting for it.
His tongue strokes gently against mine, coaxing a soft moan from the back of my throat.
I don’t know how I ever thought kissing someone like this could be anything less than sacred.
But just as I start to lose myself, the shrill chime of my phone slices through the haze.
“Fuck,” I whisper, reaching to silence the alarm. “That’s the meds reminder for your dad. I’ve got about an hour, but I should start prepping dinner, too?—”
“Wait.” Jackson’s hand finds my face again. He doesn’t pull hard, just enough to guide me back, until I’m pressed against the wall. He’s caging me in—in his way, our way, where there is an opening for me to move away if I need to. His body radiating heat and tension and want.
“Can I kiss you?” he asks, voice rough and quiet, so different from the laughter we shared minutes ago.
This is a man on the edge of restraint. I would give anything to say ‘always’ to him.
But I can’t give him the permanent consent he gave me.
So instead, I nod and his lips crash over mine, hungrier now, rougher.
He lifts me with a low grunt, and I wrap my legs around his waist instinctively.
The pressure of his hard length grinding against me draws a hiss from my lips.
“Fuck,” I breathe.
“Tink,” he groans, like he’s been waiting to say my name like this—like a prayer. “You don’t even know what you do to me. Every time I see you. Every time you breathe.”
I grip his hair tighter and roll my hips, needing friction, needing more. “I want you,” I whisper, and the words barely escape before his body stills.
“You… really?” he asks, like he’s not already holding me up against a wall with his cock pressed against my pussy. His disbelief makes me laugh, but I understand it, too. I get it. Because I don’t believe it either—not really. Not that I could want this, want him, and not panic.
But I do. I want him.
“I’m just scared,” I admit as I slide off of him and sit on the edge of the bed. “Things about me are… well, you know now.”
His expression folds into something raw and sad. He drops to his knees in front of me like he’s praying at the altar of my broken body.
“I’m so sorry,” he says, eyes locked on mine. “You have every right to be mad at me. I crossed a line, and I hate myself for it. I shouldn't have?—”
“You hurt me,” I whisper, and his head drops like I physically struck him.
“Baby,” he chokes, “you have no idea how much that guts me.”
I take his hands—his bruised, bloodied hands—and bring them to my thighs. “What happened?” I ask softly. “When you found out?”
He winces, flexing his fingers like he’s just realizing the pain. “I…destroyed the garage.”
I pull him to me by the back of his neck and kiss him—soft, slow, a little sad. But there’s heat there, too. There's a need. There’s trust.
“How sorry are you?” I murmur against his lips, my tongue flicking over the seam of his mouth.
He shivers. “So fucking sorry.”
“Show me.”
It’s like lighting a fuse. He surges forward, crawling over me as I fall back on the bed, capturing my mouth like he’s starved. His hand finds the edge of my waistband, fingers trembling with restraint.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispers, like it was hurting him not to say it. His mouth finds my neck, my jaw, my collarbone. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” I pant. “But I need to see you. I need to hear you. I need you to keep talking.”
He cups my cheek, thumb stroking my jaw. “You’re not going anywhere, baby. I’ve got you. You’re safe. You’re with me.”
His hand slips beneath my waistband, and I gasp at the feel of his palm brushing over my mound—right over the scar, the brand. My stomach twists and the flashbacks threaten, but he kisses me again, grounding me.
“I’m going to touch you now,” he whispers against my lips. “Right here,” he says, dragging a finger between my folds. “I need you to breathe, baby. Stay with me.”
“I’m trusting you,” I whisper.
His eyes darken and he leans in, resting his forehead against mine. “I won’t break that.”
His finger slides through my slick heat, and a breathy moan escapes me. “You’re soaked,” he groans. “God, Tink. You feel like heaven.”
My eyes start to flutter shut, but his hand grips my jaw.
“Eyes on me, baby,” he commands gently. “Be a good girl and slip those pants down for me.”
I obey, pulling my sweats down, shivering under the air and his stare.
“I’m gonna touch your clit now, alright?” he murmurs.
“Yes,” I gasp, Goddamn it, I’m about to scream at him to just let me do it. This slow thing is going to drive me insane. I think he knows it, too. Jackson maneuvers his thumb over my clit, and…
“Holy sh–”
He silences my loud cry with his mouth.“Shhh,” he whispers against my lips, smiling when I whimper. “Those sounds are mine now. Every one of them. Just for me.”
He pulls back and looks down at me, his fingers never stopping their agonizingly slow rhythm. “You want more?” he asks.
I nod.
“No, baby. Words. I need to hear you say it.”
“I want your finger inside me,” I whisper, my throat tight.
“No,” he growls, low and dark. “Not like that. Use that voice I love. Say it like you mean it.”
“Jackson,” I breathe, squirming under his touch. “Please, put your finger inside me. I need it.”
He groans like I just made him come. “Fuck. You never beg. You got that? You are not a woman who begs. You’re the one who gets worshipped. You’re the one they fall to their knees for.”
I sob as he presses a finger inside me, slow, deliberate, and oh my god, he curls it just right. My back arches.
“Jesus, you’re so tight,” he pants, pressing kisses along my neck. “So fucking perfect. Let me add another. Can I, baby? Can I give you more?”
“Yes,” I moan, “God, yes,”
“That’s it. That’s my girl,” he murmurs, pushing in another finger and stroking my walls like he knows them better than I do. “You’re close, aren’t you?”
I nod, my eyes wide and wild.
“I can feel you clenching. God, you’re gonna soak my hand, aren’t you?” His lips hover over mine. “Can I make you come now, baby? Can I watch you fall apart for me?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
He never looks away. Not for a second. When I fall apart, when I come hard around his fingers, when my vision goes white and my whole body shakes, he kisses me through it, swallows every cry and moan, grounding me again and again.
When it’s over, he strokes my hair, my cheek, kisses my eyelids like I’m made of glass.
He brings his fingers to his mouth, sucks them clean and groans. “Goddamn. You taste like everything good in the world. Like sin and salvation and something I’ll never get enough of.”
I laugh softly, dizzy and floating. “What does that even mean?”
“It means you taste like home, baby,” he says, curling beside me. “Like something I’ll never stop craving.”
My alarm goes off again, and I sigh, already mourning the loss of his warmth.
“I really gotta go. It’s movie night tonight, so I need to get things ready,” I mutter, and he groans, reluctantly rolling off me.
Once on my own shaky feet, I stand on my tiptoes and give him a soft, sweet kiss before walking out of the bedroom to start dinner.
I stop at the door and look back at him. “You wanna join us?”
His head jerks up, and he furrows his brows. “Huh?”
“These meds tend to keep Morris up later than usual, so we watch a movie, eat junk food, and whatnot. Would you like to join us?”
I watch his eyes go to the door, and I know he’s staring through it to his dad. I think he will say no, that he has something, anything to do, but he looks back at me and nods.“Yeah,” he says softly. “I’d like that.”
And I can’t stop smiling as I head to the kitchen, my heart so full it might finally break in all the right ways.