19. Jackson #2
I tremble everywhere. That is all I want.
“You know where to find me, J,” he adds. “In fifteen minutes, I’m going to be asleep. But if you change your mind before those fifteen minutes, I’ll stay up all night long with you.”
With that invitation, I may as well go up in flames. I am burning everywhere with lust.
I do everything in my power to tamp it down.
He slides the key over the reader and heads into the suite, the door shutting behind him, then clicking.
That sound is a ticking time bomb. It’s my fifteen-minute window. It’s fourteen minutes and fifty-nine seconds and counting. I slump to the floor. Drop my head in my hands. This desire is a vise, crushing my mind. It’s eating me up. It’s stronger than anything else in my goddamn life.
Stronger than responsibility.
I stay like that, crouched on the floor, hands wrapped around my knees, counting.
Fourteen minutes. I text Cruz, tell him about the incident, let him know Stone is in his suite.
Thirteen minutes and thirty seconds. I stare at the door, longing clutching my chest.
Thirteen minutes. I shouldn’t give in.
Twelve minutes and thirty seconds. I want to go in there so badly.
Twelve minutes. But I can resist.
Eleven minutes and thirty seconds. I have to resist.
Eleven minutes. He’s in the shower, naked, head tipped back, hands soaping up his body under the scalding water.
That image flashes relentlessly before my eyes at ten minutes. But that’s not the only image. Hundreds of other filthy, fantastic ones taunt me, tease me, lure me.
I know the consequences. I know the risks. And I know, too, that I was never going to last those fifteen minutes.
Because at nine minutes, at eight, and at seven, I see pictures of him talking to me on the plane, talking to me in the limo, talking to me at dinner.
And I ache with want.
At six minutes, I stand, run my hands down the front of my shirt, take a deep breath, and give in to the madness.
Just one more time.
I’ll get it out of my system for good.
That is all.
I rap on the door. He doesn’t answer right away. And in those long seconds that it takes before he crosses the suite, I ask myself one more time.
Will I walk away?
But as soon as the door opens, my decision is ironclad.
Stone is on the other side, hair slicked back, droplets of water sliding down his chest, a towel slung low on his hips. I step inside, kick the door closed behind me, and shove him up against the wall next to it.
I grab his face, clasp his cheeks, and bring my mouth to his, stopping when I’m millimeters away.
“You. Me. Tonight. It’s going to be like this . . .”
And then I kiss the fuck out of him.
I could say it’s the lack of clothes. I could say it’s what happened in the lobby. I could say it was the tension in the elevator.
But that would all be a lie.
It’s the last six months of wanting him. It’s the night we kissed in the hall. It’s the evening in the limo when we gave in.
It’s the haircut, the dinner, the talks. It’s all the moments leading to this one when I’ve given myself permission.
Permission to feel.
It’s the way he looks at me and the way I look at him.
I could get fired. I could become that bodyguard who fucked his client and never got another job.
I don’t want to be that guy.
But I also want to be this guy. I want to be the guy who takes this private risk with this man who’s so very tempting. This dangerous, alluring, private risk. I thread my hands through his hair, slamming my body against his, kissing him like it’s all I’ve thought about, because it is.
Because there is no other way for me to kiss him.
My lips devour his, crushing his mouth, exploring him, tasting him, letting his scent go to my head. He becomes all my sensations. Our tongues delve. Our mouths smash. And our breaths mingle together in a hot, searing collision of kisses.
One after another after another.
His arms wrap around my neck, grabbing the back of my head as I grip him harder, kiss him more hungrily, jerk my body against his.
Everything about this is wrong.
But everything about this feels right, with his body against mine.
We kiss, long and deep and passionate, and I don’t want to stop. I don’t ever want to stop.
But I also want all the next things.
I wrench away, panting, my breath coming out in a rush.
I stare into his eyes, glassy with desire, glazed with lust.
“We’re going to fuck tonight,” I tell him.
Stone wiggles an eyebrow as his lips curve into a crooked, filthy grin.
He slides his hands up the back of my head through my hair, thrusting his hips at my pelvis.
“It’s about fucking time.” He drags a hand down my shirt, over my chest, spreading his fingers across my pecs so he can work the buttons open one by one.
He’s taking his time, but I’m pent-up. I’m needy. And I want my clothes off. I take over, and my shirt is on the floor in mere seconds.
I free him from the confines of his towel, ripping it off, and my breath hisses as his cock springs free, standing at attention, ready for me.
I’ve touched Stone, I’ve had him, but tonight I’m going to have him all night long. I wrap my hand around his thick shaft, shuddering at the hot, hard feel of him. Of the soft, smooth skin and the steel length. And then that fantastic bead of liquid at the head.
I drag my hand from base to tip, my thumb rubbing across the crown, collecting a drop of my favorite drink.
I bring that liquid pleasure to my lips, tasting it, and my head goes hazy with lust. I can’t be bothered with taking him to the bed. I drop to my knees right here.
Stone lets his head fall back against the wall, grabs my face, and says, “You’ve been promising me something for a while, Jackson. Give it to me now.”
I intend to show him I’m a rock star too.
Because that’s how I give blow jobs—like a rock star.