Chapter Twenty-Nine #2
“You said no talking.”
“And you listened?”
I always listen to you.
When I set her on the edge of our bed, her hair’s tumbled around her face, cheeks flushed. She’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.
“Jack,” she chants. “Jack, Jack, Jack.”
Show, don’t tell. Right?
I drop to my knees in front of her, kissing every inch of skin I can reach. It’s not often I let myself take, but she’s calling my name. Here I am. Her breath catches when I run my hands up her thighs and push her knees apart.
“Are you tired?” I press a kiss against her inner thigh.
Sometimes we do things differently if her RA is acting up. Sometimes, that means sleeping, even when she protests that she’s totally up for all the action and that’s just mean, Jack. Sometimes, it means she lets me take care of her.
Her sultry “Are you offering to do all the work?” indicates she’s feeling good tonight. She shoves up on her elbows. “What’s your plan, Jack?”
“I thought I’d start here—” I brush a kiss over her hip bone. “And then I’d move here.” I trace the crease of her hip with mouth. “And I definitely need to spend time here.” I move lower.
“Jack…”
“Yeah?”
“You have the best plans,” she moans. “Carry on.”
I do.
After, I follow her down onto the mattress and cage her with my arms. Get right between her legs and line myself up with her entrance. She’s wet and warm and I’m all over her.
Laughing, she holds her arms up. “Come here, you.”
I trace her with my fingers and she arches up with a gasp. I love you so much. “I won’t last long.”
She smiles. Then she watches me roll on a condom and after that everything is hard and deep, slick and fierce. I sink into her, find her with my fingers so she can keep up. My other hand tightens on her hip, pins her down.
Dixie comes fast and hard, taking what she needs.
That’s all I need. Having her take.
I come so hard and for so long that it’s almost too much, the pleasure sparking through me, a tightness that goes on and on.
“Wow.” She flops back on the pillows, throws an arm over her face. “You sure know how to say goodbye.”
Because of course she’s making light of this. Breathless and dazed, smelling like our sex.
I think, I love you.
And that’s not enough.
Dixie
I should be basking in post-sex bliss, but instead I’m trying not to let Jack see me wince. Shit. Too late. He’s already up, moving with that quiet efficiency of his to grab the hot water bottle from the bathroom.
He tucks it against my lower back. “Better?”
“Getting there.” I roll over to face him, studying his profile in the lamplight. “Can I ask you something that might piss you off?”
His mouth quirks. “Shoot.”
“Why do you live your life according to some ancient book? All those rules, all that—” I gesture vaguely. “What if you’re wrong? What if there’s nothing up there and you’re missing out on everything down here because some invisible someone else is dictating what you do?”
“You want to know what really got me into ministry?” He shifts, propping himself up on his elbow so he can trace circles on my hip bone with his thumb.
“It wasn’t the Bible verses or the theology classes.
It was watching my mom try to hold our family together when we lived in that van.
She’d sing to my sister every night—hymns, mostly, because they were the only songs she knew all the words to.
And I’d think, what kind of God lets a good woman sleep in a parking lot with her kids?
What kind of love lets that happen?” His fingers stop moving for a beat. “I was angry for years.”
“What changed?”
“I met this chaplain in the Marines. Guy named Rodriguez. Found me after I’d gotten into my third fight in two weeks and my commanding officer was ready to kick me out.
” Jack’s smile is rueful. “He didn’t quote scripture at me or tell me God had a plan.
He just said, ‘You’re carrying around a lot of broken glass, son.
You can keep cutting yourself with it, or you can learn to make something beautiful. ’”
I reach up, run my fingers through the dark softness of his beard, following the line of his jaw beneath. “And?”
“He showed me that faith isn’t about following rules to avoid punishment.
It’s about believing broken things can heal.
That people who’ve been thrown away still matter.
That someone like me—angry, messed up, living out of a van—could be worthy of love.
” His eyes meet mine. “And maybe even worthy of helping other people find that same thing.”
Something tight in my chest loosens. “So it’s not about the book.”
“The book helps. But it’s about showing up when someone’s world falls apart and saying, ‘You’re not alone.
You’re not too broken to be loved.’” He brushes a strand of hair from my face.
“Kind of like what you do with your music, actually. You write songs for people who feel lost. I just use different words.”
“You’re not what I expected.” I straddle his hips, feeling better. “When I first saw you, I thought you had to be another guy with a savior complex.”
His hands find my thighs. “And now?”
“Now I think you might need some saving.”
I lean down and kiss him—not soft or sweet, but hungry. Demanding. My teeth catch his bottom lip and he groans into my mouth.
“Dixie—”
“My turn to take care of you,” I say, already making plans. “And, Preacher Man? I’m very thorough.”
I don’t want to think about Nashville. About the record deal waiting for me or how I’ll be leaving all this behind. Leaving him behind. I shove those thoughts down deep. Whatever comes next, I have right now.
Jack sprawls beneath me like some kind of pagan god—all broad shoulders and dark hair scattered across his chest, muscles that come from real work rather than a gym.
His legs are long and powerful, taking up most of the bed, and that thick beard makes him look wild despite the careful way he carries himself in public.
This is Jack unleashed, and he’s mine. At least for tonight.
I cup his face in my hands and kiss him hard, all tongue and teeth and desperate need.
He kisses me back just as fierce, but when I start working my way down his chest—pressing my lips to the hollow of his throat, the hard plane of his collarbone, the spot where his heartbeat hammers against his ribs—his breathing goes ragged.
“Dixie.” My name comes out rough, broken. “What are you—”
His laugh turns into a sharp intake of breath. By the time I reach his hip, his hands are fisted in the sheets.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathes.
“Wrong name.” I look up at him through my lashes. “Try again.”
His guttural groan fills the room when I reach my destination, his hands tangling in my hair. Not pulling, just holding on like I’m his anchor in a storm.
“Look at me,” I whisper, meeting his eyes as I take him into my mouth.
The sound he makes—half curse, half prayer—sends heat shooting straight through me. He tastes like salt and heat, something purely Jack, and I breathe him in deep, letting myself get drunk on it. On him.
“Christ, Dixie, you’re—” His words are cut off in another groan as I work him with my tongue. “So fucking good, baby. So perfect.”
I trail my nails down his sides, feeling him shudder beneath my touch.
Cup him in my palm while my mouth does things that make his hips jerk helplessly.
I want to lose myself in this—in the weight of him on my tongue, his breath coming in sharp bursts, the gorgeous broken sounds spilling from his lips.
“You’re gonna kill me,” he rasps, voice wrecked. “Gonna be the death of me, and I don’t care.”
I pull back just long enough to grin up at him. “Good thing you believe in resurrection, Preacher Man.”
His laugh is breathless, desperate. “You’re terrible.”
“You love it.”
“I love—” He cuts himself off, but his eyes say everything his mouth won’t.
His hands tighten in my hair then, and something shifts.
The careful control he always wears like armor finally cracks, and he moves, taking what I’m offering with a desperation that makes my heart race.
This is what I’ve wanted—to give him permission to let go, to be wild, to stop being so goddamned careful all the time.
My mouth stretches wide around him, jaw aching, and the sounds we make aren’t pretty—gasps and groans, the wet slide of skin. But God, it’s beautiful. He falls apart beneath my touch, this voice cracking on my name.
Jack
Seven hours later, she drives out of my life.
I watch the taillights fade. I’ll be fine.
I have to be.