11. We Need To Change This
We Need To Change This
Summer
The click of the door echoes through the room as Donnie leaves.
My eyes lift back to Jackson. He hasn't looked away from me since he forced my wrists above my head, and whatever burns behind his eyes makes something deep inside me recoil.
It isn't hatred. It isn't lust. It's something older than either of those things.
Something that feels worn into the very fabric of him, as though he's looking beneath my skin instead of at it, searching for something only he can see.
"Jackson," I whisper, my voice catching somewhere behind my ribs.
He doesn't answer.
My pulse crashes against my throat while he studies me in silence, his expression unreadable. Then he leans in.
I freeze.
The rough scrape of stubble brushes my cheek as he slowly traces the line of my neck, drawing a measured breath that sends nausea twisting through my stomach. Every muscle in my body locks. I don't understand what he's doing, and somehow that's worse than if I did.
His free hand rises, the backs of his fingers ghosting over my cheek with unbearable care.
Too gentle. Far too gentle. His hand lingers before drifting higher, disappearing into the auburn strands framing my face.
He gathers a lock of hair between his fingers, rolling it slowly as his eyes follow the movement.
Something changes. It's almost imperceptible.
"We need to change this," he murmurs, more to himself than to me.
The words drift into the space between us, calm and matter-of-fact, as though he's commenting on the weather or deciding a room needs repainting.
My stomach drops so violently it feels as though the floor disappears beneath me.
No.
My mouth parts, desperate to force the word out before whatever decision he's just made becomes real, but nothing comes. My tongue feels thick. My throat refuses to work. Panic presses down on my chest until even drawing breath becomes an effort, each inhale catching somewhere behind my ribs.
His hand slips from my hair, trailing slowly down the side of my face before settling against my shoulder. The weight of it is steady. Certain.
His gaze drifts over every inch of my face with painstaking concentration, lingering for a moment too long before moving on, only to circle back again.
His brow gradually tightens, frustration creeping into the tiny lines around his eyes, like he's standing in front of a painting that's almost identical to the one he remembers—except for one detail he can't quite place.
The silence stretches until it begins to pulse in my ears. I can hear my own breathing. Feel each frantic beat of my heart hammering against my ribs, desperate enough that I wonder if he can feel it too through the inches separating us.
Then his eyes lower.
His hand follows.
The moment his palm settles over my breast through the thin fabric of my dress, my lungs seize. I don't breathe. I don't think. Every muscle in my body locks beneath his touch.
He's so close.
Dark hair.
Those impossible blue eyes.
Then I’m somewhere else.
The Dogwood.
Music spilling through the crowded bar. Benny holding me while swaying on the dancefloor with that easy smile that had seemed so effortless, so genuine.
His hand reaching for mine beneath the glow of the neon lights.
The dizzy warmth that had spread through my chest when I'd let myself believe—just for a little while—that someone had chosen me because they wanted me.
The memory curdles almost as quickly as it arrives.
Because none of it had been real. Not the smiles.
Not the laughter. Not the stolen glances that had made my stomach flutter.
Every conversation had been another carefully placed stone leading me toward this room.
Toward Jackson. Toward the man standing in front of me now, searching my face with the same impossible blue eyes.
My stomach twists so violently I think I might throw up.
The room shifts again.
This time it's Jacob.
His hand wrapped around mine across the center console of the truck. The rough scrape of his thumb over my knuckles. Cedar. Cologne. The low certainty in his voice every time he'd promised he wasn't going anywhere.
Home.
The word blooms in my head before it shatters as I’m dragged from my thoughts as pain bites sharply through my nipple.
The gasp tears itself from my throat before I can stop it.
My eyes fly open as my body jerks instinctively against the restraints, the leather snapping taut above me.
The brass pole presses harder into my spine, refusing to give me even an inch as I twist away from him.
My pulse is everywhere. In my throat. Behind my eyes. Hammering through my wrists until my fingers begin to tingle. I shake my head without even realizing I'm doing it, my body searching desperately for somewhere to go despite knowing there isn't anywhere.
He watches with quiet concentration, as though every tremor that runs through me—every ragged breath I fail to steady, every involuntary flinch—is telling him something he needs to know.
His free hand catches the neckline of my dress.
The fabric slides slowly from my shoulder, exposing skin to the cool air before his mouth follows.
The first touch steals the breath from my lungs, heat blooming where it shouldn't, my body betraying me with a violent, unwanted response that sends fresh panic crashing through me.
No. Please, no.
My thoughts tangle together as I squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself somewhere else. Anywhere else.
His grip leaves the fabric and drifts lower.
I feel it long before it reaches me, every slow inch of its descent tightening something inside my chest until my pulse is pounding so hard I can barely hear anything else.
My thighs tense instinctively. My knees try to draw together, but he pushes his leg between them, opening me up exactly how he wants me.
I know where his hand is going. I know I can't stop it.
My breathing turns ragged, each inhale catching halfway into my lungs as I brace for whatever comes next, my entire body rigid with helpless anticipation. Every muscle screams at me to fight, to run, to do something. To bite, to scream, to scratch. But I’m frozen.
The room seems to tilt.
My thoughts dissolve into static.
All I can hear is my breathing.
Then, as suddenly as it began, it stops.
Cool air rushes over overheated skin while I remain exactly where I am, wrists trembling above my head, lungs dragging in ragged breaths that refuse to slow. My chest rises and falls so hard it almost hurts.
He's breathing heavily, too, and his eyes never leave me. They search my face with that same unsettling concentration, as though he's found the answer he'd been looking for all along.
He raises his fingers and parts them to admire the glaze of my arousal. Then brings them to his mouth and slowly sucks them clean.
The gesture twists something deep inside my stomach.
"You're ready." His voice is a quiet growl.
Before I can make sense of what he means, he's moving again.
One arm circles my waist and hauls me effortlessly toward him.
The world lurches as my stomach slams against his shoulder hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs.
My hair spills toward the ground as I thrash instinctively, fists pounding uselessly against his back.
He simply turns and carries me out of the room.