18. Jackson
JACKSON
Idrag my hands down my face, staring at the city lights through my office window. Another late night. Another excuse not to go home. The numbers on the contract blur together, my mind drifting to soft skin and breathless moans.
"Fuck." I slam my palm against the desk.
Three days of burying myself in work hasn't done shit to erase the memory of her wrapped around me. Of finally tasting what I'd been craving. And now? Now I can't function without wanting more.
My phone buzzes. Another message from her that I won't answer. Can't answer. Because the second I do, I'll be racing home to pin her against the nearest wall.
"The Hong Kong shipment details are ready, boss." My assistant's voice crackles through the intercom.
"Send them in." Work. Focus on work. Not on whether she's sleeping alone in that bed in my home. Not on whether she's wearing one of my shirts. Not if she's missing my presence the way I am hers.
The meeting drags. I catch myself zoning out twice while discussing prices, something that's never happened before. These men expect cold efficiency. Instead, they're getting a distracted fool who can't stop thinking about golden-flecked eyes and the way she arches when?—
"Mr. Amato?" One of the buyers clears his throat. "The percentage split?"
I straighten my tie, forcing my mind back to business. "Forty-sixty, non-negotiable." My voice comes out harder than intended. Good. Maybe if I lean into the ruthless bastard I am, I can forget how her fingers felt tracing my scars. How she didn't flinch when she saw the darkness in me.
But I know it's bullshit. I'm not letting her go. Can't. Won't. She's mine now, whether she wants it or not. Whether it destroys us both or not.
The deal nearly slips through my fingers when I mishear a crucial detail.
It takes every ounce of my negotiation skills to salvage it.
This is what she does to me. Makes me weak.
Makes me want things I can't have. Like normalcy.
Like mornings drinking coffee together. Like pretending I'm not the kind of man who deals in death.
I shove through my front door at midnight, my jacket already half off. The house is quiet. Too quiet. Usually she's up waiting, ready to throw barbed comments my way about my extended absence.
The living room light bathes everything in a soft glow. And there she is – sprawled across my leather couch, one of my shirts drowning her small frame. Her hair is loose, black strands falling across her face. A book lies open on her chest, rising and falling with each breath.
My throat tightens. This isn't the calculated seductress who knows how to make men bend to her will. This is raw. Unguarded. Real.
"Shit." The word comes out rough. I should wake her, send her upstairs. Instead, I find myself moving closer, cataloging details I shouldn't care about. The way her fingers curl slightly. The small tattoo visible behind her ear. The peaceful expression that makes her look younger, vulnerable.
I reach for the book, careful not to disturb her. The spine reads The Art of War. Of course she'd pick that from my library. Even in sleep, she's plotting.
"Jackson?" Her voice is sleep-rough as her eyes flutter open. For a moment, before her walls slam back up, I catch a glimpse of something soft in those light brown eyes.
I don't want to hurt her, but I don't know how to navigate this. I never thought of myself as the kind of man who ran away from shit, but when it comes to her… I am. I'm trying to keep as much distance between us as possible without really letting her go.
"Go back to sleep, angel." The endearment slips out without its usual sarcasm.
She shifts, my shirt riding up to reveal a dangerous amount of thigh. But it's not desire that hits me hardest – it's the urge to keep her safe. To protect rather than possess.
I turn away before she can read it on my face. This is exactly what I've been avoiding. These fucking feelings that will get us both killed.
Unable to leave her there. I slide my arms beneath her, lifting her slight frame against my chest. She burrows closer, seeking warmth, and my jaw clenches at how perfectly she fits there. Like she was made for me. Like this isn't the most dangerous thing I've ever done.
Besides actually fucking her. That was a terrible idea on my part. She has completely scrambled my mind.
"Mmm." She nuzzles into my neck, her breath hot against my skin. "Missed you."
The words hit like a bullet to the chest. I force myself to keep walking, to ignore how my hands want to tighten their grip. Keep her close. Never let go.
Her bedroom door creaks as I shoulder it open. The sheets are already pulled back, like she'd been waiting for me. Hoping I'd come home. The thought makes something dark and possessive curl in my gut.
I lay her down, careful not to wake her fully. She immediately curls onto her side, my shirt riding up to expose more skin than my self-control can handle. I drag the blanket over her before I do something stupid like climb in after her.
"Stay." Her fingers brush my wrist, feather-light.
"Sleep, angel." I extract myself from her grip, hating how empty my hands feel without her in them.
My feet carry me to my room on autopilot. I strip, shower, try to wash away the scent of her that clings to my clothes. But alone in my bed, staring at the ceiling, I can't escape the truth anymore.
I'm slipping. The ice I've spent years cultivating is melting. Deals are falling through. Shipments are getting delayed. My reputation for ruthless efficiency is cracking. All because I can't stop thinking about her.
The really fucked up part? I don't want to stop. Don't want to go back to being the cold bastard who never felt anything. She's crawled under my skin, made a home there, and trying to cut her out would hurt worse than any knife.
I press the heels of my hands into my eyes until I see stars. This isn't who I am. I don't do vulnerable. Don't do feelings. But here I am, lying awake at three in the morning, wondering if she's warm enough. If she's dreaming of me the way I dream of her.
The walls I've built are crumbling, and I'm watching them fall without lifting a finger to stop it.