Chapter 5
Chapter Five
D aphne
Damon and Cassie discuss music until we stop in Baker. We grab drinks and use the bathroom at a convenience store, then Jackson and Damon switch driving duty, and we head back onto the desert highway.
For a while, Cassie and I talk about the sci-fi show we're watching together. Eventually, the conversation fades into the music (Damon's pick, which means grunge, which, ugh). I lose myself in the sights of the desert. Sand and cacti and blue skies until the city comes into view.
An oasis in the middle of nowhere. All strange shapes and colors. The gold triad of the Mandalay Bay (our hotel), the black pyramid Luxor, the strange castle of the Excalibur, and the fake NYC, Eiffel Tower, and Space Needle.
We park at the hotel, wheel our stuff to the front desk, check in to our rooms.
Cassie smiles as she waves the key to me. It's pure I can't wait to hang out with my bestie and I want to grab on to that so badly.
I really do.
But the words threaten to spill from my tongue. I'm leaving for New York .
I don't know how to talk to her without telling her—
I'm terrified to tell her.
So I do something really, really stupid.
I take her key, and I hand it to my brother. "Why don't you two room together?"
Cassie looks at me curiously.
Damon too.
"I'm going to have to run to Jackson's room when you two celebrate alone, so why don't we get ahead of it, huh?" I shrug as if I don't mind. As if I am only thinking logically and not hiding from this news. "Go. Have your way with each other now. I'll see you at dinner."
"Are you sure?" Cass asks.
"Go. So we have time to hang out tonight." I force a smile. I hope it says I'm so evolved I don't even care if you fuck my brother, whatever , but I'm not sure it does.
"We can hold off for two days," Damon says.
I shoot them a please look.
Cassie bites her lip. "She's right. We can't."
"You can't," he says.
"See. It's starting. Go. Enjoy yourselves. Get lost." I grab my suitcase, wave goodbye, and wheel right to Jackson.
Without a word, he follows me out of the lobby.
He shoots me a funny look, but he doesn't object to the change of rooms.
Because he wants to fuck me.
Or because he thinks so little of fucking me, it doesn't even occur to him.
One of the two.
I'm ten minutes into avoiding alone time with my best friend, and I'm already onto my first hurdle.
For some reason, Jackson's hotel suite is decorated for a couple.
He must have booked the room with his ex-girlfriend. This means Damon volunteered to room with him, instead of his girlfriend, last minute.
A pity invite.
Or something like it.
But that's not my primary concern at the moment. No. The path of deep red rose petals obscures all other problems.
The flowery line leads straight to the bedroom, the one with a four-poster bed, with visible under-the-bed restraints and a giant red gift basket on top of the gold comforter.
An adult gift basket, complete with champagne, lube, furry handcuffs, and chocolate-flavored condoms.
I open the unmarked envelope and read the card.
A little taste of what's in store for the rest of your life. That's what you get dating a lawyer. They love rules in and out of the bedroom.
- Rip
My cheeks flame. My chest too. I fight the blush. I try to push my mental images aside.
They ignore my wishes. My head fills with visions of Jackson and I tangled in the white sheets, the cheap black lingerie barely covering my chest, his hand around my throat, the pink handcuffs around my wrists.
It's right there in his green eyes.
A hint of embarrassment, yes, and a hell of a lot of interest. He is into BDSM. It's as obvious in his eyes as it is in the plain text of the card.
He loves rules everywhere.
"This is for you." I push the card into his hands.
He glances at the text and lets out an annoyed sigh. "Fucking asshole."
Huh? Sure, this isn't the way I'd choose to celebrate a friend's relationship, but it is a nice gift set. Expensive. "Who?"
"A work rival," Jackson says. "The guy hates me."
"Why'd he buy you a bondage set then?"
"He overheard us once," he says.
Overheard what? A million questions form in my mind. Then mental images. Only Jackson isn't with a mystery woman in them. He's with me.
The two of us, alone in some big, fancy office. He's still fully dressed in his sharp suit. He pulls off my tank top, rolls my jeans to my ankles, bends me over his massive desk, and purrs take it like a good girl .
My sex clenches.
My body buzzes.
These mental images are far too vivid.
"Oh." Is the only thing I can manage to utter. "Were you…" I'm a sex researcher in training, but I still can't bring myself to describe the situation in clinical terms. I try a fun euphemism instead. "Getting busy at work?"
"No." He doesn't expand.
I don't ask. For a moment. Then I do. "How did he—"
"We were on the phone," he says. "I was talking her through a scenario. He overheard. Teased me about it. Got the wrong idea."
"What idea is that?" I know I shouldn't ask, but I do anyway.
"That we were together." His voice is matter-of-fact, as if this is a normal conversation for the two of us to have.
I try to match his tone. "But you weren't?"
"No." He takes the card and tosses it in the trash can by the door. "We only started after the breakup."
"A sort of breakup sex."
"You could say that," he says.
"So she comes and you don't—"
"Should we be talking about this?" His expression gets severe. The lawyer ready to cross-examine you. Or shut down questioning. How does it go in cop shows? The lawyer who chides the detective for questioning a client without their consent.
That's the look on his face.
It should bother me or at least encourage me to slow down, but it doesn't. "I'm not the right person to ask."
The severe stare fades into a semi-smile. "Fair."
"But if you don't want to talk about it, I will respect that."
"I don't mind." I just don't want you to get the wrong idea . He doesn't say it. He leaves it in the air.
I shrug as if I don't actually care. As if I'm not picturing Jackson in that big, beautiful office, growling orders into his phone as he strokes himself.
Only he doesn't.
Isn't that what he said?
He talks her off for the hell of it. Because he enjoys her pleasure. Or the act of issuing orders. Or the anticipation.
All of the above maybe.
"I hate to turn down a woman in need," he says. "But it's not always an opportune time to finish." The words hang in the air a moment too long. Enough, they make the room warm and electric.
Sometimes, he talks off his girlfriend, even though he doesn't have time to fuck himself. How am I supposed to think of anything else?
Jackson continues without noticing my daydreams, "Rip overheard me once. Teased me about it. He implied he'd tell our boss about it. Only it was with my girlfriend, so what would he tell the guy? Jackson cares about his partners' needs."
"If it's a random woman, you're a pervert, but if it's your girlfriend, you're a great boyfriend?"
"Something like that." His voice returns to that matter-of-fact tone. "We're competing for partnership. Five associates. Two spots. He plays dirty. He'd knock me out for perversion if he thought it would help."
"Are you sure?" I look at the gift basket again. It's not the nicest stuff, but it's arranged in a thoughtful, fun way. As if the person who sent it really wants Jackson and his girlfriend to have a good time. "This is… a weird move."
"Maybe I'm paranoid," he says. "Office politics does that."
"No. You're probably right. You're as observant as Cassie is."
That earns a full smile. A quick one, but still.
Fuck, he has such a nice smile. It lights up his eyes. It lights up his entire face.
He's stern most of the time, but when he smiles—
"Keep anything you want." He picks up the basket and hands it to me. "I don't want anything from him." He taps the plastic over the handcuffs. "And those don't work."
"Do you only use real metal police handcuffs."
He raises a brow in a teasing pose. "Do you really want to know?"
Yes, tell me everything right now. Thank you. I swallow the words that rise in my throat. I am not here to fuck my best friend's brother. No matter how much I want to feel his body against mine.
"Shouldn't we talk about what you want?"
You, ordering me out of my clothes as soon as possible . That isn't what he means though. What does he mean? "Huh?"
"In Mr. Right Now," he says. "We can start looking after we unpack. Unless you have plans with Cass."
"I think she has plans with Damon."
He shakes his head, though I can't say what he's shaking it at, specifically. The thought of his sister with my brother. The thought of his sister having sex. The fact they're ditching the group to get down.
Or maybe that's why I'm shaking my head.
Even though I told her to do it.
Even though I'm the one hiding from her.
"Perfect," I say.
He nods sure and grabs his suitcase. "Give me twenty to unpack and shower." He motions to the four-poster bed. "You can take this. I'll use the pull out."
"Let's talk and walk the strop. I need to stretch my legs." And get away from all the inviting horizontal surfaces in the room.
He sets his suitcase on the ground and moves clothes into the closet.
I take the dresser.
For a few minutes, we arrange our stuff in silence, then he heads to the shower.
I finish unpacking, I pop a bottle of water, I pack a few of the condoms, and toss the rest of the pack.
It never hurts to have extras. This is it. The start of my mission to find someone to fuck.
Then Jackson steps out of the shower in only a towel, and the whole find someone hotter than Jackson part of the mission fails to launch.
Where the fuck did he get that body?
His features look even more chiseled with his wet hair sticking to his face. And with water dripping off his defined shoulders, chest, stomach, thighs—
I'm such a sucker for a man's thighs.
I give him the room, but I don't find any space from my dirty thoughts. I listen hard for the sound of the towel dropping, and I fill in my own scenario.
Jackson inviting me into the room, ordering me to strip for him, teasing me with those perfect flashes of hard muscle and soft skin, until the two of us come together again and again—
Okay, so maybe I won't find someone hotter.
Maybe I just need to find someone.
Anyone.
Whatever it takes to keep my hands to myself.