Love Set Free

Chapter Twenty-Four

Jackson

Walking into the hotel with the Wilding family feels just as uncomfortable the second time around. As soon as the sole of my sneaker touches the lobby’s marble floor, I half expect an employee to come up to me, inform me that someone like me doesn’t belong here, and then swiftly show me the door. I stick close to Phoenix, avoid making eye contact with anyone, and scarcely even breathe until we’re all in the elevator. Once the doors close, then it feels like I can relax and think about getting to spend another night sleeping in a ridiculously comfortable bed.

My heart is still racing from being questioned by the police. I can only thank my guardian angel, or whatever saint protects morons, that Phoenix got his way and the police talked to us together. Since it’s his kidnapping that the police truly care about, they directed most of their questions to him. Once I gave them the basic details of my own supposed abduction and told them that I spent the rest of my time inside of a box, I pretty much stopped being of any interest to them.

Thank God. Because I’m a shit liar.

There’s a reason that I ended up in that box, wearing a blindfold.

The initial plan, and the whole reason I was hired, was so that I could befriend Phoenix once the kidnappers nabbed him. They wanted him docile and cooperative. And, apparently, they’d run enough kidnapping schemes in the past that Mueller had noticed that whenever they had more than one captive on their hands, the kidnapped individuals tended to respond better when there was a possible threat against someone they’d bonded with, rather than when it was just a threat against themselves.

Which is why, when they turned their sights on Phoenix Wilding, they decided to give him a fellow captive. The only problem was that Phoenix usually traveled alone.

And that’s where I came in.

Was I a bit put off when I learned exactly what I was hired for? Yes. Yes, I was. Did it upset me enough that I quit? Obviously not. The fact that I still needed the money they were offering hadn’t gone away just because the exact nature of the job wasn’t quite what I thought it was going to be. I was so desperate to keep this job, and the payday they were offering, that I was more freaked out that I’d be fired when Mueller was disappointed by how my “training” was going, than I was by what they were asking me to do.

The training they had me doing, before flying me down to Brazil, was a bunch of roleplaying with Jones, where he’d pretend to be Phoenix and I would try to talk to him and forge a bond with him. Except that I was really bad at it. Really, really bad. All I had to do was talk to someone just as myself—they weren’t even asking me to pretend to be somebody I wasn’t. But I couldn’t do it. No matter what the topic of conversation, even when they wrote up a script for me to follow, I sounded like I was lying.

Each day that went by, Mueller got more and more unhappy with my inability to be convincing. I for sure thought I was going to be fired. And I was more than a little afraid of what being fired from something illegal would mean.

It was Jones, my roleplaying partner, who came up with the idea that, if I couldn’t sell a lie, then maybe it should stop being a lie. He called it method acting.

I wasn’t thrilled when I got to Rio and they showed me the box they wanted me in. I was even less thrilled when they handed over a blindfold for me to put on, tied me up, and then had me climb into the box. But I did it. All of it. Of my own free will.

And then I waited. And waited.

They’d warned me they weren’t exactly sure when Phoenix was flying out to Brazil. The information they’d gotten from a crewmember of Phoenix’s private jet was that he intended to go to one of a couple possible parties that were scheduled for shortly after New Year’s, but that he hadn’t confirmed with them which one it was going to be yet. We all flew down to Brazil, so we’d be in place and ready for whenever Phoenix flew down. If I’d known I would end up stuck in that fucking box for three weeks before they were able to grab Phoenix… Who am I kidding? I’d never would’ve had the guts to tell them I’d have preferred not to have spent all that extra time locked inside a box, not being able to see, and living on the crappy food Silva brought me twice a day.

But Jones was right. Once the lie was no longer a lie, everything that came out of my mouth sounded believable. And once Phoenix was stuck in a box too…I was able to do the job they were paying me for. I was his fellow captive. I befriended him, kept him company in the dark.

I never expected—I don’t think anyone would’ve expected—that my inability to lie meant that I couldn’t even lie to myself. I might’ve befriended Phoenix, but he became my friend right back. And when I was his comfort, his voice of calm and hope in the dark…that’s what he was for me, too.

Moment by moment, hour by hour, day by day…I was his and he was mine.

So, so many lies…that became the truth. My truth.

And now…now…I can’t imagine being apart from him. I don’t want to be apart from him. Not ever. No matter what that takes.

Which is why I can’t help dragging my feet as we walk down the hall toward our rooms. His room, and mine. I already know what happened when Phoenix left me alone in my room last night. And the sheer relief I felt when Phoenix saved me from being without him.

But I can’t expect him to do that again, right? Surely, Phoenix will expect me to go into my own room and let him go across the hall into his. That would be the logical thing, the unselfish thing.

Because I do recognize that this driving need to keep Phoenix with me at all times, as close as possible at all times, is selfish of me. I just…don’t care. I suppose that’s what being selfish is all about.

I could kiss him when Phoenix makes no move to head toward the door to his own room, instead turning to face mine as he asks, “Interested in watching a movie or something?”

And since there’s nothing stopping me from doing exactly that, I weave my fingers through the soft strands of Phoenix’s hair, cupping the back of his head, and softly brush his lips with mine. Hmm. It was nice when I did it this morning; it’s even better now, without the scraggly growth of hair that had been on my chin getting in the way.

“Do I get to pick the movie?” I barely lift my mouth from his as I ask the question and my tongue flicks out to quickly trace a quick lick to the lush curve of Phoenix’s plump upper lip as I wait for his response.

To my disappointment, instead of pressing our lips back together to exchange more kisses, Phoenix pulls back so that he can give me a sour look as he replies, “No. Didn’t we already establish that you have shitty taste in movies and that I would be the one to pick any movies we watch together?”

“Nope, pretty sure we didn’t. I have no idea what you’re referring to.”

“Wow,” Phoenix says with a laugh, his teasing smile brightening his entire face. “You are a horrible liar. It’s written all over your face. You’re such a horrible liar, I should call you Mr. Liar McLiarson. Just for that, I definitely get to pick out the movie.”

It doesn’t matter to me what we watch, or who gets to pick, so long as watching a movie together means that Phoenix is staying with me. For a little while longer, at least. Maybe even for the rest of the night, if I can get him to. And he’s right, I am bad at lying, so I just shrug and go to pull the plastic keycard out of my pocket.

Phoenix beats me to it, passing one he already has in his hand over the electronic lock next to the door. I hadn’t really thought about it, but I suppose that answers the question of how he got into my room last night.

“At least I know I’ll never have to worry about you lying to me,” he comments as he opens the door and waves for me to go in ahead of him. “I’ll always be able to tell if you do.”

“S’pose so,” I agree. “Guess I’ll just never lie to you then.”

Again , I think to myself. Although, is not telling someone the whole truth the same as lying? Probably. I definitely haven’t told Phoenix the whole truth. Not about me, not about how I came into his life. And if I want to keep him—and I do—then I probably never will.

But what I can do is never lie to him again. As long as it’s not anything about his kidnapping, that is.

After the door swings shut behind us, Phoenix double checks that it’s locked. He walks over to the pale, cream-colored sofa in the suite’s sitting area and flops down onto it. Seriously, why is everything in this hotel some shade of white? It makes me so nervous to touch anything. But I guess I’ll just have to chance getting some dirt on it, because there’s no way I’m going to pass up on the opportunity to sit next to Phoenix and cuddle up with him.

“I can’t believe they kept us for almost three hours,” Phoenix says with a groan. He grabs the remote for the TV and props his feet up on the square, wooden coffee table. At least it isn’t white. But I still mentally cringe at the scuff marks he’s probably leaving in the glossy, dark finish.

“And here I can’t believe the police only kept us for three hours," is my response as I settle myself on the sofa, next to him. “I was anticipatin’ they’d be throwing questions at us all night. And probably all tomorrow morning too. I could even see ’em houndin’ after us as we tried to get on y’all‘s plane.”

“ Hmmpf . I’d never allow that." Phoenix’s scoffing expression changes to a worried look as he partially turns toward me. “You know…we don’t have to watch a movie,” he says. I’m all set to nod and agree with him, thinking he’s about to suggest that we move right on to the cuddling portion of the night, when Phoenix comments, “It seems like your accent gets more noticeable, the more tired you are. If you’re too tired…I can let you go to bed. Get some more rest.”

It doesn’t escape me, his use of the singular in his suggestion. It doesn’t sound as if he’s suggesting we both go to bed together. Nope, it only sounds like he thinks I should head off to bed. By myself. And that… Nuh uh. Not what I want, at all.

“Nope. I’m not tired at all,” I tell him, making sure to enunciate as best I can to lessen my natural drawl. I’d never noticed if it does get worse, the more tired I am. Maybe, maybe not. But I don’t want to give Phoenix any reason to leave.

“If you’re sure.” He doesn’t sound convinced, but he does some of my arguing for me as he adds, “But, I suppose, you can always get some sleep on the plane tomorrow. The flight takes almost an entire half a day.”

“Exactly.” I immediately leap on what he just said. “I can sleep on the plane. In fact, we should both stay up as late as we can tonight, so that we can sleep through most of the flight tomorrow.”

Phoenix drapes his arm over the back of the couch and I immediately snuggle against him, into the space he made.

“Alright, sweetheart. You make a valid point. Movies now, sleep on the plane tomorrow.” With that settled, Phoenix turns the TV on and begins scrolling through the various movies available to stream.

After I curled into his side, Phoenix moved his arm to wrap around my shoulders and his left hand is now lightly resting on my chest. How I keep forgetting about it, I don’t know. Probably because Phoenix hasn’t been making a big deal about it, or even mentioning it, but the white bandage wrapped around his finger—which is definitely looking a little on the grungier side—reminds me that Phoenix is injured. Those fucking assholes hurt my Phoenix.

But, except for a few hours last night, Phoenix hasn’t been out of my sight.

“You haven’t had anybody look at your hand, have you?” I ask him, not intentionally trying to sound accusatory, even if that’s how it comes out.

“Um…no?”

The blasted, infernal man. He doesn’t even sound like it’s any sort of thing that he has an untreated wound.

“Phoenix! You need to… We need to… Right now,” I say. “Screw watching a movie. We’ve gotta track down a doctor and get you seen right away.”

I could just about growl with frustration when all the dang man does is shush me and kiss me on the temple.

“It’s fine. Barely even hurts.” He idly raises his hand away from my chest and holds it out. “Bandage could do with replacing, I guess.”

“Phee…”

“Alright, alright,” he replies in response to the note of warning in my voice. “Why don’t we make a deal?” he asks, and I impatiently wait to hear what sort of deal he’s about to spring on me. It probably isn’t my place, but darned if I won’t shoot his deal down and make him go see a doctor if I have to. “The pilot and co-pilot of my family’s jet are both trained and certified EMTs. How about I have one of them look at my finger tomorrow? They can tell us if it’s something that needs to be taken care of right away or if it can wait until we land back in the States and I can book an appointment with a doctor there. Frankly, that’d be my preference. Not that I’m not sure there’s perfectly reputable and capable doctors here, in Brazil. But if it does need any sort of surgery…that’d delay us from leaving and getting back home. And I’d really rather not have to stay here in Rio any longer than we already have.”

It sounds reasonable. Although, what do I know about medicine and treating wounds?

“And these pilots…you swear they’re qualified to give you the right answer?” I ask.

“Mmhmm. I promise.”

“And you will show them your finger and ask them what the best option is? Not the most convenient option, or the one you want, but the best option?"

“I promise,” Phoenix says again. “I won’t bully them to change their mind or glower at them if they give me a recommendation I don’t like. I promise I’ll do whatever they say. Okay, sweetheart?”

“Okay. I guess,” I grudgingly answer.

“Good. Then we can go ahead and watch a movie—or a couple of movies—tonight, like we planned, and we can forget all about my finger until tomorrow.”

I’m not so sure that’ll happen, although based on how I do keep forgetting about it, it certainly is possible. More importantly, I really don’t want to make Phoenix angry with me by forcing him to do something he doesn’t want to. And I do want to pass the night with just the two of us together.

So, I let the subject drop and turn my attention back to the TV when Phoenix asks, “What about this one?”

The TV is showing the title of a movie I’ve never heard of, with a brief bit about what the movie is about, next to the image of two actors I don’t recognize in the slightest. Not that that’s saying much. Even back when I still had a laptop—before I had to pawn it to buy groceries—the best I could do to see movies was to check them out of the local library and watch them on my computer. That was a couple years ago, so I’m not surprised that I’m not familiar with the movie, or the actors in it, that Phoenix is suggesting.

But watching the movie isn’t the part of watching a movie with Phoenix I’m looking forward to, so I just reply, “Sure. Looks good to me.”

As the movie plays, I’m paying just enough attention to it to figure out that it’s a romcom. Or maybe not, I rethink as a plane explodes on the screen, just after the lead actor and actress manage to escape, of course.

What’s much more important for me to be paying attention to is how nice Phoenix smells. He used the same hotel soap and shampoo that I did this morning, I’m pretty sure. But for some reason, the stuff smells so much better on him.

And the way he feels, curled around me and holding me close, that’s also so much more interesting than some old dumb Hollywood action movie. Er, still possibly a romcom, ’cause there’s now a bunch of flirting and goo-goo eyes between the actors. I honestly can’t tell which it’s supposed to be, and I just can’t find it in myself to give a crap.

I really did enjoy the way Phoenix found pleasure with me this morning. And I’ve definitely been enjoying the couple kisses we’ve exchanged. And really, isn’t making out on a couch while “watching” a movie a time-honored American tradition? I certainly think so.

For the meeting at the Consulate, Phoenix had snagged the one dressier shirt that had been in the pile of clothes left in my room—pale, coral-ish pink, with short sleeves and buttons that shimmered like a freshly-plucked-from-the-ocean pearl. Not even attempting to be subtle about it, I let my fingers trail down Phoenix’s chest, following that line of buttons.

“Hmm. What are you up to, sweetheart?”

Phoenix doesn’t sound upset about what my fingers are doing, merely curious. Hopeful? I’m kind of hoping so.

“Oh, nothing,” I reply.

But contradicting my words, my fingers continue their course. Down, down, down, bump, bump, bumping over each button, and skimming along the soft, almost silky, fabric of Phoenix’s shirt in between them. Until, finally, my fingers reach the bottom edge of the shirt, laying bunched and gathered where it meets the waist of his almond-colored shorts. And then, swift as a fish slipping off a hook, my fingers dip and dart underneath his shirt, seeking and finding the soft, warm skin of his stomach.

“That doesn’t…that doesn’t feel like ‘nothing’, Jackson.”

The catch in his voice, and the slight quiver Phoenix can’t hide, along with the sudden tension running through his body, gives me a jolt of greedy enjoyment. None of the girls I’ve touched in the past were ever so responsive as Phoenix is, at least, not that I can recall. And the fact that it’s me doing this to him…that I’m the one affecting him this way…Jesus, I can’t get enough.

“Shh… Never you mind what I’m up to,” I tell him, my fingers taking a slow glide up the silken skin covering Phoenix’s rigid abdomen. “You just go on and keep on watchin’ the movie.”

Phoenix’s stomach is flat, but, unlike mine, which is just flat and scrawny, Phoenix has noticeably defined abs. My fingertips eagerly trace over the gentle swells, along the ridges and dipping down into the shallow valleys between them. I feel the soft brush of hair tickle my fingers as they move, and I find that I like that too. I’m liking everything I’m finding out about Phoenix and I want to find out more. Want to explore more of him.

I settle the hand I have under his shirt in the center of his chest, the thrum of his heartbeat an enticing tempo vibrating against my palm, and with my other hand, I reach over to begin popping open Phoenix’s shirt buttons. I want to be able to see with my eyes, the delightful landscape my fingers have been exploring.

But before I can get more than just the first button open, I find myself on my back on the sofa, with an impatiently turned-on Phoenix on top of me.

“Fuck. Shouldn’t be doing this. I know it’s not… You can’t actually want this. But I can’t… You don’t know what you do to me.”

His breath is hot on my neck as he pants words of want and need. I want to object to his denials. I do want this. I do want exactly what he’s doing. But Phoenix keeps talking, and I’m too caught up in enjoying the feel of his body pressing down on me to summon up the ability to string more than two words together.

“Ah, Phee. Shit, so good. Like this.”

“I’ve got to have you,” Phoenix mutters, the words pressed against the skin of my neck as he drags his lips along that trembling, sensitive expanse. “I’ve got to. Please let me. Even if you don’t want… Please, please want, sweetheart. Because I can’t help myself.”

I wrench my right hand loose from between us and rocket it up to the back of his head. My fingers spear through the soft strands of Phoenix’s hair, holding his head in place against me as I implore him, “Yes. Please, yes. Anything.”

A belt jangles as it’s unbuckled and it’s only as I notice the tugging at my waist that I realize it must’ve been mine. Phoenix undid my belt and now his fingers are hurriedly unfastening my pants. I’ve no idea what he’s planning to do with me and I don’t care. When I said he could do anything with me, I meant anything.

In the few days since I finally was able to set eyes on Phoenix, my eyes have catalogued as many details about his appearance as I can manage. And I’ve definitely noticed how elegant and graceful his long, slender fingers look. Now, I also know that they’re nimble, gentle, and warm—so, so fucking warm—as they slide their way through the loosened opening of my pants, gliding down to cup and fondle my junk.

“Jesus. You’re…you’re not even hard, Jackson.”

No, no, I’m not. Not even a little bit. I’m not surprised by this—my dick didn’t get hard this morning when Phoenix rubbed off against me and I’ve never gotten hard with arousal for any other man before. But while I’m not upset over my dick being limp, Phoenix most definitely sounds as though he is.

“We shouldn’t… I can’t do this, babe. I can’t.”

My hand gets dislodged from the back of his head and my fingers slide out from the silken haven of Phoenix’s dark hair as he jerks his face away from my neck. He shifts his weight to get up from lying on top of me and I can already feel the loss of his presence, even with only those few inches of space he’s created between us.

“No. Phoenix, no. I want this. Please.” My pride is a badly neglected and undernourished thing, and I’ve no problem continuing to let it wither away from lack of use. My greedy and needy hands snatch and grab at any part of Phoenix I can reach—the fabric of his shirt, his arms, his shoulders, his hips—as I try to pull him back to me. “Oh, God, Phee. Please, I want this. I promise. Anything you want of me. Anything you want to do… I want it, I swear.”

I can feel his reluctance and uncertainty in every line of his body. But I can also feel his own answering greed, as Phoenix allows me to drag his body back on top of mine. We might be roughly equal in height, but I’m no match for the strength evident in every sinew and line of Phoenix’s leanly muscled frame. There’s not a doubt in my mind that if he truly wanted to resist me, wanted to resist what all I was offering, he’d be able to yank himself free of my hold. The fact that I have him draped on top of me, bodies arranged back up head to knee as we lie on the sofa, instead of him being clear across the room, tells me that I’ve won.

My victory at getting what I want, at getting all of Phoenix’s attention and intent back on me, has me murmuring a repeat of what I’m willing to give him. “Anything, Phee. Take anything. Do anything.”