8. Jackson #2
She hesitates, and I can see the question forming—the invitation upstairs hovering unspoken between us.
I can almost taste how the night would unfold if I accepted: her body pressed against the wall inside her apartment door, my hands tangled in her hair, eight years of separation obliterated in a collision of need and memory.
Before she can voice it, I step back. "I should get going. Early meeting tomorrow."
Disappointment flashes across her face, quickly masked. "Right. Of course."
I turn to leave, taking three steps away before her voice stops me.
"Jackson?"
I look back, finding her still frozen in the doorway, uncertainty written across her features. She opens her mouth, then closes it again without speaking.
"It's not a good idea, Tarryn," I say quietly, answering her unasked question.
"Why not?" The directness of her question, the naked want in her eyes, makes my cock harden painfully against my zipper.
I check my watch, then meet her gaze with deliberate heat. "Because we have an eight a.m. client meeting tomorrow, and if I come upstairs with you right now, neither of us is getting any sleep tonight."
Her sharp intake of breath is audible in the quiet street. For a moment, I think she might push—might say sleep is overrated, might cross the distance between us and make the decision for us both. Instead, she swallows hard and nods.
"Good night, then."
"Good night, Tarryn."
I wait until she's safely inside before turning away, my body thrumming with unfulfilled desire and a bone-deep ache that will only ever be satisfied by her.
In my apartment, I pour myself two fingers of whiskey and sink onto my couch. The amber liquid burns a path down my throat but does nothing to extinguish the fire Tarryn kindled with no more than her proximity and the unspoken question in her eyes.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I call Marcus, my oldest friend from high school and the only person who knows the full story of Tarryn and me.
"This better be important," he answers, his voice gravelly with sleep. "It's almost two in the morning."
"I almost slept with Tarryn tonight," I say without preamble.
There's a rustle of bedsheets, then Marcus is fully awake. "Tarryn, Tarryn? The same Tarryn who turned you into a zombie for months after high school?"
"The one and only."
"Jesus Christ." He exhales sharply. "Wait, you said almost. What stopped you?"
I take another sip of whiskey, considering the question. "Self-preservation, maybe. Professional ethics, definitely."
"Since when have ethics ever stopped you from getting what you want?" There's a smile in his voice that makes me grimace.
"Since what I want could potentially derail both our careers."
Marcus is quiet for a moment, then asks more seriously, "Are you sure working with her is a good idea? Remember how it was after she ended things? You didn't get out of bed for three days, man."
The memory makes me wince. Those dark days after our final conversation, when the loss of her felt like a physical amputation—a vital part of myself suddenly, irrevocably gone.
"It's not like I have much choice now," I say, staring into my whiskey. "We're both at Blake Financial, both assigned to the Westfield account."
"There are other firms in Chicago," Marcus points out.
"It's not that simple."
"Because you still have feelings for her," he concludes, not a question but a statement of fact.
I don't answer immediately, the truth too raw to voice aloud. Finally, I sigh. "It's complicated."
"It always is with you two." He yawns. "Look, just be careful. Chemistry is one thing, but you and Tarryn were always like gasoline and matches. Great when it works, catastrophic when it doesn't."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence."
"That's what friends are for—brutal honesty at two in the morning." His tone softens. "Seriously, though, whatever you decide, I've got your back."
After we hang up, I remain on the couch, whiskey forgotten as I replay the evening in my mind.
The almost-physical pull I felt toward her in the cab.
The way her eyes darkened when I told her why coming upstairs was a bad idea.
The visible pulse at the base of her throat that I wanted desperately to taste.
Eight years, and she still affects me like no one else ever has.
Eight years, and I still know exactly how she'd feel beneath me, around me, against me.
Eight years, and the mere thought of her creates a fantasy in my head—how she'd moan if I pinned her wrists above her head, how she'd arch when I took her nipple between my teeth, how she'd clench around my fingers when I finally touched her where she needed it most.
My cock throbs painfully against my zipper at the mental images. I should take a cold shower, try to sleep, put professional distance between us like any rational adult would do.
Instead, I find myself remembering the exact shade of her flushed cheeks under the building lights, wondering if she's lying awake too, thinking of everything we didn't do tonight.