Chapter 32 Protective Wolf
The next morning I was on my hands and knees while Jackson held my hips and drove into me from behind. The room filled with the rough sound of our breathing, the creak of the bed, and skin meeting skin in a rhythm that kept building, faster, harder.
“Hang on,” he rasped near my ear, as his pace picked up.
As if I had a choice.
I moaned into the pillow as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter inside me, my whole body already trembling with the pressure of it. No one had ever made me feel the way Jackson did. Like he could reach into me and pull reactions out of my body I didn’t even know existed.
“More,” I demanded, the word breaking on a small growl.
His grip shifted instantly. One hand slid from my hip to my shoulder, holding me steady, while the other moved between my thighs. His fingers found my clit, working tight, deliberate circles that made my breath stutter as his pace didn’t slow.
It was too much. It was not enough.
I didn’t care that the headboard kept slamming loudly against the wall. If anything, the noise only fed the reckless heat already burning through me.
Then the orgasm hit hard enough to rip a cry from my throat. My body locked around him as the pleasure crashed through me in sharp, blinding waves.
Jackson cursed roughly behind me.
His weight pressed fully against my back and his teeth caught my shoulder, not enough to break skin but enough to send another shudder through me. A deep growl vibrated from his chest as his thrusts turned uneven.
A second later he came with a hoarse sound against my shoulder, body tensing as he buried himself deep inside me.
“Fuck,” he groaned breathlessly.
Then the bedroom door flew open.
“Jax, you u— oh my God.” Lia’s voice cut off sharply.
Jackson reacted on instinct. He covered me with his body, pressing me flat against the mattress as he yanked the blanket over us.
“What the hell are you doing?” he snapped.
Lia stood frozen in the doorway for one horrified second too long. Jackson kept me covered. So she couldn't see the small, satisfied smile tugging at my mouth.
Maybe I'd been a little louder than necessary toward the end.
“Oh fuck, I’m sorry,” she stammered, already backing out. “I thought—”
“The closed door should’ve been your first clue,” Jackson growled.
The door slammed shut.
Silence lasted exactly two seconds before Jackson dropped his forehead against the back of my shoulder with a long-suffering groan.
“Sorry about that,” he muttered, pressing a quick kiss to the nape of my neck.
I turned my head enough to look at him. “Does she always just walk into your room like that?”
“No,” he said immediately. He frowned. “At least not without knocking first. I don't know what the hell she was thinking.”
I had a pretty good idea, but I didn't tell him.
Jackson sighed and brushed his thumb lightly along my hip. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s shower and then get breakfast.”
I followed him into the bathroom. The shower was big enough for two and Jackson made full use of it. He took the loofah and body wash, working the soap slowly over my shoulders, down my back, across my stomach. His hands were big and rough and absurdly gentle at the same time.
When he finished he wrapped a towel around me and nudged me toward the counter while he stayed to wash himself.
I was halfway through brushing my teeth when he stepped out. He grabbed a towel and wrapped it low around his hips. I might have ogled him a little in the mirror. He was, objectively, magnificent.
Without a word he came up behind me, pressing his front lightly against my back while his arms slid around my waist. A second later his chin settled on my shoulder and he rubbed his cheek slowly against mine.
I spat toothpaste into the sink and rinsed before glancing at him in the mirror.
“Had to use your toothbrush,” I said. “Couldn’t find a spare.”
“I don’t keep spares,” he murmured lazily against my shoulder. “I don’t bring women here.”
My cat liked that answer. And so did I.
Jackson brushed his teeth while I worked through the knots in my wet hair. A minute later he rummaged through a drawer and pulled out a new hairbrush still in its packaging. He tore it open and stepped behind me again.
I caught his eye in the mirror. “What are you doing?”
“I’ve got it.”
He plugged in the blow dryer and started carefully brushing through the damp strands while warm air filled the bathroom.
I watched him in the mirror because the sight felt surreal. Jackson Black, 6′5″, broad shoulders still damp, a towel barely hanging on, entirely focused on not snagging my hair. His gray eyes stayed on the brush, patient and strangely gentle.
Something inside my chest shifted painfully.
When he caught me watching, he leaned down and kissed the top of my head without breaking rhythm, then went right back to drying my hair.
Warmth spread slowly through me. Safety. Comfort. Feelings I still didn't entirely know what to do with.
By the time we made it downstairs the house smelled like coffee and bacon. Rick and Jason were arguing over whether bacon should be crispy or “structurally sound.” Rick was losing.
Lia sat at the kitchen island with a mug in both hands. She straightened when she saw us and her gaze settled on me.
“Harper... about earlier.”
I stopped beside the island.
She gave an awkward smile. “I'm really sorry about barging in. I heard weird noises and... I forgot you were there.”
“Jackson was growling like a feral animal,” Jason said, laughing.
Jackson flipped him off without looking away from the coffee maker.
She hadn't forgotten. She'd watched him carry me upstairs the night before. But I let the lie stand.
“It's fine,” I said.
Lia let out a small breath. “Still. I'd rather erase that entire memory.”
Jackson set two mugs on the counter before turning to look at her.
“You don't walk into my room, Lia. Ever. We're not doing that again.”
“I know.” She nodded once. “It won't happen again.”
Jackson looked at me. “Cream and sugar, right, baby?”
My cat preened at the endearment.
“Yeah. Thanks.”
He made it exactly the way I liked it, and Lia’s eyes followed every movement.
I noticed.
He set the mug in front of me and leaned back against the counter with his own. I took a careful sip. Perfect.
“So,” he said, nodding toward the gray morning beyond the window, “the thing I wanted to run by you.”
He glanced at Rick. “There’s a paintball place about forty minutes out. Decent course, woods, not just bunkers. Rick’s been wanting to go for a month and won’t shut up about it.”
“You ever played?” Rick asked me.
“Once.”
“How many people did you shoot?”
I considered it. “Most of them.”
Jason pointed at me immediately. “Oh, she’s definitely coming.”
Jackson’s hand settled lightly against my lower back. “You want to go?”
I thought about it. A wooded course, moving targets, reading angles, a legitimate reason to track people through trees and put rounds on them. It was the most relaxing thing anyone had offered me in weeks.
“Yeah,” I said, lifting the mug for another sip. “Okay.”
The coffee was exactly right.
“But I should warn you,” I added, glancing at Jackson over the rim. “I don’t lose.”
Forty minutes later, Jackson pulled off the highway. The three idiots in the back seat were still arguing about something none of us could follow.
The paintball field sat on the edge of a forest, tall pines surrounding a renovated warehouse with signs advertising birthday parties and corporate team-building.
After signing waivers that essentially said the company wasn't responsible if we died in fake combat, we changed into padded coveralls that smelled faintly of detergent and gathered in the staging area.
The employee clapped for attention.
“Alright, folks. Sunday afternoons we run hourly matches. Free-for-all. No teams. If a paintball breaks anywhere on your body or gear, you’re out. Everyone gets a unique color so we know who tagged who.”
Around us, college students, families, and a few overly competitive couples checked their gear while the rest of the safety briefing faded into the background.
My paintballs were orange. Jackson's were green.
Jason glanced around. “I swear to God if some twelve-year-old named Connor takes me out…”
“You’re probably the easiest target here,” Lia said.
“Emotionally unnecessary.”
The employee kept talking about boundaries, surrender rules at close range, and not physically tackling anyone no matter how “immersive” the experience became.
Beside me Jackson adjusted the strap on his mask before looking down at me.
“Stay with me.”
“Pass.”
His eyebrows lowered behind the visor. “Harper.”
“I’m not hiding behind you.”
“It’s not hiding if I’m trying to keep you from getting shot.”
“It’s paintball.”
“That stuff hurts.”
My cat stretched lazily. Protective wolf.
“You’re adorable,” I informed him.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
He grumbled, caught me by the front of my vest, pulled me in, and kissed me hard through the gap beneath my mask. When he pulled back, his gaze flicked over my shoulder toward the other players.
“Just making sure everyone knows you’re mine,” he muttered.
I rolled my eyes. “I don’t think they got the message. Maybe you should piss on me to be sure.”
Jackson smirked. “Don’t give my wolf ideas.”
Jason gagged loudly. “Jesus Christ. Start shooting each other already.”
Jackson ignored him, still holding me close. “Stick close enough that I can get to you if something happens.”
Unfortunately for him I already knew I was leaving him behind the second the game started.
The field was massive, part forest, part mock town, with plywood walls, stacked barrels, wrecked cars, wooden towers, and narrow dirt paths winding through the trees.
Around twenty players spread across the starting zones.
Some looked serious. Others looked like they were expecting birthday-party fun and were about to be disappointed.
The loudspeaker began the countdown. Markers clicked, compressed air hissed, and everyone settled into ready stances.
“Five!”
Jackson caught my wrist.
“Four!”
“At least stay where I can see you.”
“Three!”