Sins of September (19 page)

“Yep,” he says, smiling and nodding his head, I knew how perfect you would look with that diamond around your neck.”

“Jesse,” I stammer, fingering it, “It’s beautiful. Thank you so much,” I say, so enamored with his lovely and expensive gift to me.

“I love you,” I sigh, totally enraptured by this man.

“I love you, September,” he finally says and I realize it’s been worth the wait.

I throw the sheets back, lying back against my pillow. We are in his room since his bed is bigger and Scout is out for the night; we can do the rare thing and sleep together which I really love to do even though we’d only done it once before. It means so much to me, sleeping tangled up with Jesse.

He stretches out next to me on his side, his head propped up on an elbow, one of his fingers lightly tracing a circle around the nipple of my right breast.

“You know you’re fucking scrumptious,” he says, his eyes getting a lusty sparkle in them.

“What are your plans?” I ask, cocking an eyebrow.

“I plan on showing you that you’re mine all night long. Make up for all those nights we can’t spend the whole night together,” he replies softly.

I turn on my side, propping my head on an elbow. I need to approach this cautiously—because I don’t for a second want him to feel rushed in doing what we had discussed previously. I know he wants to wait until summer before bringing Scout into the picture as to how Jesse and I feel about one another, but I think he needs to know what she said to me the other night.

“Jesse,” I start out cautiously, “Can we talk for just a minute? It’s about something Scout said to me the other night.” I’m biting my lower lip and he sees that.

“Is it bad?” he asks, gazing over at me.

“I think it’s good—but you can decide.”

“Go on,” he urges, mentally bracing himself, because now, I can totally read his body language and hear the unspoken with my man.

I take a deep breath and tell him the whole story. At the end, I glance over to read his reaction. A slow grin spreads across his handsome face, and he’s looking at me with love in his eyes.

“What?”

“Aw—it’s nothing,” he says, a goofy grin still gracing his full lips. “Just that, well you know what they say:
Outta the mouths of babes . . .

“No, I guess I don’t know. I’ve never heard of that saying before. I don’t get it.”

He shrugs, “It just means that she’s showing her wisdom, realizing that you’ve become well, sort of a
wifey
and
mother
figure around here, I guess.”

And now I’m really unsettled by it.

And I know how fucking contradictory this sounds! Hell, all I’ve done is turn into a nester, wanting nothing more than to have Jesse the way Mama had him, to love and to appreciate him the way that she never did. I crushed on Jesse at an early age, but this is different. This isn’t a school crush, this is love.

But fuck—I’m only
eighteen.

I’m not looking to settle into life as a domestic goddess, I mean, I may
never
want that. I want a career, I just don’t know as what yet. I want goals to reach, but I’ve neglected to set any yet. I don’t want to be my mother; I only want
part
of what she had, and that part is Jesse.

And Scout?

I’ve
always
loved my baby sister. And I know she’s come to regard me as her caregiver—but not a mother, certainly not that. I mean at least I don’t
think
so.

“I love you, Jesse, and I love what we have. But I think that maybe—”

And I don’t verbalize the rest of that thought, because he’s on me, and playing my body like a musical instrument, as only he can. Everything else is forgotten. Because once again, Jesse takes ownership of my body and my soul, as he shows me, with every part of
his
body and soul, just how much he loves and cherishes me. The rest is forgotten for now.

I come awake in Jesse’s bed and stretch lazily, feeling content, happy and totally fulfilled. I glance around, and except for me, the bed is empty.

I throw the covers back and feel around for the red silk nightie he had relieved me of the night before. Finding it at the foot of the bed, I shrug it on over my head just as the bedroom door opens and Jesse comes in, all grins, carrying a tray.

“And where the hell do you think you’re going?” he asks, setting the tray down on the nightstand. “I’ve got our breakfast here and I plan enjoying mine right next to you in my bed.”

“You cooked breakfast for me?”

“Hey, I used to be the chief cook and bottle washer here before June.”

“Don’t you mean before September?” I ask, giving him a wink.

“Ha ha.”

So we feast on Jesse’s famous eggs, bacon, hash browns and biscuits, which is something I
never
make or we’d all need a new wardrobe.

Afterwards, we shower together, washing one another in the most intimate places. Jesse washes my breasts at least three times with his tongue and mouth until I finally turn my back to him—not a good move on my part as he delivered a mind-blowing finger fuck to me from behind, his hard-on rubbing deliciously against my ass.

“Don’t even think about it,” I warn as I feel Jesse guiding his erection up and down along my butt crack teasingly.

“Then back to my bed, woman,” he growls, “because you’ve got me all hot and bothered again.”

We both run, still dripping wet into his room, diving under the bedcovers, our hands all over one another in the very private places of our still damp bodies. We’re just getting down to business when my cell phone rings on the nightstand where I left it.

I poke my head out from under the covers, my curiosity piqued because usually it’s Jesse on the other ends of these calls. I want to make sure it’s not Scout since Jesse’s phone is nowhere in the immediate vicinity. I don’t recognize the number, and let it go to my voicemail, diving back underneath the covers.

“Who is it?” he asks, nipping at my lower lip.

“Don’t know. Not a number that’s in my contact list.”

Several moments later, my phone chimes with a voicemail that’s been left. Jesse’s hands are massaging my breasts at the moment, but his focus has diminished.

“Do you think you need to check it? Maybe it’s Scout.”

“No,” I assure him. “I have Melissa’s number entered into my contacts on the phone. It’s not her.”

I get back to kissing him, my hands moving south to grasp my favorite muscle of his, when he interrupts me yet again. “Maybe you ought to check your voicemail. It could be something about Scout and Melissa’s not around. Maybe it’s Jeff’s phone.”

Jeff is Amber’s father.

I sigh, stopping my massaging of his dick to climb out from underneath our warm cocoon of covers and grab my cell. I push the button to listen to my voicemail, sitting up abruptly when I hear the voice.

“Hey September, it’s Evan Summers. Shayla gave me your digits. I was wondering if maybe you’d like to hit the spring dance at school with me next month? Give me a holler, my number is . . .”

I push delete to erase the message. “It’s no one,” I say, pulling the covers back over us. Jesse’s not buying it. He immediately pulls the covers back and sits up.

“I’m not buying that shit, who was it?”

It’s not like Jesse to pry like that. I’m thinking he’s totally joking around, but then asks me again.

“It’s just some guy from school. Evan Summers. He . . . uh . . . he asked me if I wanted to go to the spring dance next month.”

“Do you?”

The hell?

“I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“Why the hell would he ask you?”

Okay. Now that’s TOTALLY fucked-up.

“Gosh, I don’t know, Jesse. I guess the chick with the hump turned him down.”

I pulled my legs out from underneath me and attempted to launch myself from the bed. He’d
seriously
killed the mood.

I am immediately hauled back, held prisoner by his strong, muscular arms. I feel his warm breath in my hair, as his hand skims against my forehead. “I didn’t mean it like
that,
” he explains, giving me a sheepish look. “All I meant is . . . well, I mean is he . . . someone you’re, uh, interested in?”

I pull myself from his grasp. “Don’t you really mean is he someone I flirt with?”

His eyes are non-committal; his gaze is aloof, though he’s not totally pulling that one off. “Okay, is he someone you
flirt
with then?”

“No,” I say firmly, “And look at
you
getting all sophomorically jealous like that. I don’t know whether I should feel flattered or disturbed.”

I’m on my feet; heading to the bathroom to finish drying off and getting dressed. He’s right behind me.

“Hey,” he says softly, reaching for me to spin me around, “I was totally out of line—and sophomoric. Guilty as fucking charged. I’m sorry. Forgive me?”

And when he looks at me with those sapphire pools of total sexiness, what the fuck am I supposed to do? “I guess.”

“Good. And by the way—I think you should call Ethan back and tell him yes, you’d love to go to the dance.”

Huh?

“What?”

“No, I mean it,” he replies. “Hey this is your senior year of high school. Dances like this are a rite of passage—something I don’t want you missing out on. I mean, it really makes me feel guilty if you don’t participate in these things.”

“First off—his name is
Evan,
not Ethan. Secondly? I’ll think about it.”

That totally catches him off guard, and I’m glad it did. What the hell is he thinking sometimes?

Seriously?

I need to be honest here. Ever since Jesse’s shared things with me—stuff about Mama, it makes me realize just how close I am to morphing into that same type of situation, only different, if that makes sense.

What
are
we doing?

Am
I some twisted Lolita with
daddy
issues?

Do I love Jesse because it’s taboo and risky?

Is this payback to my mother?

I’m eighteen years old, and yes, that’s the same age Jesse was when he got involved with her, but how did
that
work out for him?

Or for her?

Jesse’s left the bathroom. I shrug my terry robe on and head back to the bedroom.

He is dressing in silence. He pulls his jeans up, buttoning the fly. His chiseled back, with the serpent sprawled across from shoulder to shoulder is visible and my eyes caress him feeling a sense of pride that my body has possessed his and vice-versa.

Why in the fuck am I trying to put it all—the past, present and future under a microscope in order to magnify every little thread of it, searching for tears or imperfections to validate that Jesse and I are both damaged goods in some respect?

Why do I need constant validation that this is a viable, realistic, acceptable thing between us?

Because I’m eighteen and lately, I’m feeling older inside and maybe that’s not entirely a healthy thing.

“Jesse,” I say quietly. “Are you serious with what you said about me going to the spring dance?”

He turns to me, his arms twisting a white cotton tee shirt up and over his head. “I guess I am,” he replies, “But not for the reason you think.”

I walk closer to where he’s standing. “And what do you think I think is the reason?”

He sighs, crossing his arms in front of himself. “You think I’m not as involved in this as you, that I’m unsure of my feelings, and that maybe I’m not in it for the long haul. Is that about right?”

I look up into his blue eyes and see the truth. This is what he actually believes, but it’s only some of what I feel. “Partly,” I reply, looking away.

He comes up behind me; his hands rest on my shoulders. “Care to clue me in on the rest?” His fingers are gently manipulating my shoulder blades; his closeness is impeding my ability to be perfectly candid, which is what is needed.

There’s a hitch in my voice when the words come out, making them sound borderline pathetic and feeble. “I’m wondering if you’re not using this
rite of passage
thing to your advantage—as a way of assuaging your guilt, and maybe to pave the way for your . . . exit.”

“Guilt? Exit? What the fuck? Do you know me
at all?”