You and Me (7 page)

"I thought you said it was a simple procedure?"

"It is, relatively speaking. But it's my first time doing it on my own. It was such a rush."
 

He appears calm enough, but there's an energy swirling in his eyes. I don't think I've ever seen anything so consuming, so incredibly alluring.

"Looks like it went off without a hitch," I say, smoothing the front of my dress with my palm.

"It was perfect." His gaze travels down my body, warm and hungry. Suddenly, he's right in front of me, hooking an arm around my waist and bringing me up against him. "Where were we, freckles?"
 

I'm intoxicated even before his mouth slams into mine.

His kiss is blazing and urgent and unlike anything he's shown me before. It sweeps me up and out of my body as his hands cup my waist and gently guide me back against the wall.
 

A short exhale parts my lips as he brings his hips flush to mine, the solid mass in his pants jabbing me with brutal and delicious promises. I can't catch my breath, even as his desperate kisses move to my neck.

"You're giving me a contact high," I breathe out.

I glance through the glass, down at the operating room. The last of the workers leave the room without so much as a glance upward.

Jackson seems unconcerned, either way. He's much too preoccupied with dragging a hand up the inside of my thigh, much bolder, much higher than before. My hands get a mind of their own, moving over his pants, caressing the outline of his erection. My mouth has never watered from just feeling a man, but I swear on everything, I nearly fall to my knees and take him in my mouth.
 

But he strokes me unexpectedly and I gasp, as he slips a finger beneath the thin material separating us and glides over my searing skin.

"
Jackson
." I mean for it to be a warning, but it sounds more like a moan.

"Don't worry, no one's coming back in for at least forty minutes."
 

"How do you know?"

"Because I told them not to." His words are deliciously warm against the skin of my neck, as he nibbles me gently. "It's just you and me, freckles. And you've been driving me crazy all night. I'm dying for a taste."

He's on his knees before I know it. Cool air floods me as he pulls my dress up over my waist. His voracious kiss starts up again right at the inner most crook of my thighs. But nothing could prepare me for the way he pulls my underwear aside and gives me one, sharp, agonizing suck. My hips twitch and I throw my head back on a moan of surprise. He urges my legs farther apart then hooks one of my legs over his shoulder.

Holy shit, he means business.

With a hand flat against my stomach to keep me steady, he works his erotic kiss, head bobbing between my legs as he teases me right over the fucking edge.

I try to keep quiet. I try so hard. Even as I twist uncontrollably, overwhelmed with sensations, body bowing in pleasure and head thrown back in a long, satiated moan.

In one swift move, he slips my leg from over his shoulder and gets to his feet.

"Better than the pasta?" he asks.

"
Huh
?"

I have no clue what he's talking about. I have no clue what words are.

He smiles and drags his hands up the back of my thighs. Grabbing my ass, he pulls me up, spins us around, and lays me down on the inclined observation glass.

"Oh God, I'm going to fall." I look around, panicked.
 

He tugs my chin with a finger, forcing me to look at him. I do. And I can't look away. I can't help but trust him when he whispers, "You're fine."

I can't help but allow him to pull my dress over my head, all the while whispering, yet again, "You're so fucking fine."

I'm lying on glass, with the eerie sensation of floating in midair. Yet, I'm not afraid. Because the man before me looks godlike and I'm sure this must be what gods look like when they pull their erections out of their pants to roll on condoms over god-like penises.
 

"I can imagine what you look like from down there." He nods to the glass on either side of me. "I can see it so fucking clearly."

And with that, he brings his lower body flush to mine and pushes inside of me. I squirm at the delightful way he fills me, but he gives me no time at all before he's pulsing in and out, frantic and urgent.
 

Fuck. Someone could walk into the OR and see us, see the way my naked body heaves up and down the glass at the power of his thrusts. See the way I run my hands down his gorgeous chest between his open shirt. This whole damn thing under me could give out and I could fall to the floor below. But this feels so good I can hardly bring myself to care. I'm winding my hips, moaning and pleading for more.
 

It's careless and gluttonous.
 

Irresponsible and completely unlike me.
 

It's wrong and thrilling and so, so fucking good.

Whatever misgivings, whatever hesitations, fall away at the tendrils of an orgasm nearing. My body arches, lifting from the glass, and he slides a hand up to grip my waist as he picks up his speed.
 

The gratifying noises he makes. The sight of his flexing arms as he holds on to me. His breathing. His gorgeous, feral eyes consuming me just as roughly as his cock slams in and out of me. I can't contain myself.
 

"
Jackson. Fuck. Jackson.
"

Pleasure spills over, bursting into a sudden crescendo, and taking control of my hips as they lurch and jerk against him. I cry out, grasping hold of his forearm as a noise so ferocious emits from me, I don't even recognize it myself.

He looks absolutely drunk with power now, lids low over his eyes as he watches the way I come all over him. He pumps faster still, until he goes rigid and groans, low and guttural. And then, I revel in the way that
he
comes undone.
 

As god-like as he might be, I am his equal.

CHAPTER NINE

Samantha

MY HEART SWELLS IN my chest at the collection of weirdos gathered around me. I'm having a moment. One of those bizarre,
how'd we all get here
moments. It's not an unpleasant feeling. Actually, it's overwhelmingly good. So good, that I sit silently, soaking in the sounds of clinking plates and conversations around me.

Delilah set the round dining room table beautifully. There's something to be said about my sister's ability to capture the mood with her decor. The plates are all incompatible patterns, bright colors that somehow all fit so well together. 'Grandma Chic' is the only way I can think to describe it.
 

There's no real theme to the food at the center of the table, either. It's an array of meals prepared to differing tastes. From my sister's natural recipes, Grace's hearty, more fattening foods, to whatever the hell is in that casserole that Heath brought.
 

Jackson sits to my right, a hand on my leg, caressing absently as he listens to Delilah describe the bizarre encounter she had at work today. I barely listen to what she's saying; I've heard similar stories more times than I can count. Delilah is a magnet for strange, awkward encounters. She loves it, though. They just serve as inspiration for her.
 

Grace sits to my left, a large bowl of mashed potatoes nestled in her hand as she scoops huge chunks onto her plate.
 

"Why are you bullshitting me right now?" Grace asks Heath, who's sitting beside her.

I didn't catch the first part of their conversation, but there's no missing the way Heath leans into her words, his eyes so keen with interest, it makes him hard to recognize. The guy who's always given off utterly unaffected vibes, suddenly seems very much affected by the beautiful blonde next to him.

"I wouldn't bullshit you, princess. You look like you've got one hell of a bullshit detector."

I pick up my wine glass and take a sip. Knowing Grace, I'm cringing inside at the pet name he used. Grace catches my eye and I smirk at her and mouth the words,
just one egg.
 

She smiles, a wide, calm smile then looks to Heath again.

"Call me princess one more time, prep-school," she says.
 

Her request is a warning, smooth but undeniable. But Heath doesn't seem concerned. If anything, he looks intrigued. The corners of his mouth twitch as he eyes her playfully.
 

"My apologies, Brooklyn…alley cat? Do you like that better?"

I blink a few times. Grace somehow knows that Heath went to prep-school—something I only just recently learned about Jackson—and Heath somehow knows that Grace is Brooklyn born and raised. Their banter has undeniable familiarity, though to my knowledge, they've only seen each other in passing until tonight. What did I miss? When the hell did these two get to know each other?
 

As though sensing my silent assessment, Heath's gaze flicks to me and his smile widens. He lifts his drink in a mock toast.
 

"Can we talk about these two for a minute?" he asks, gesturing with his glass to Jackson and me.

"Yeah," Grace says, sitting up with interest. "Inquiring minds want to know."

"Know what?" Jackson asks. His hand moves from my leg to my lower back, as though sensing what we are about to sprint through.

Delilah ignores us all and goes back to eating her food, the clinking of bracelets filling the brief interlude.

"How awkward is it? Living down the hall from someone you're dating?" Heath asks.

Eyes on her own plate, Delilah shakes her head as though she'd advise against it. And she has.
 

She likes Jackson. She just doesn't seem to think he and I are compatible. Of course, she's not privy to all the ways we fit just perfectly. It's not just sex. Although, yeah. It is a lot of that. It's the way we balance each other out. Just a few weeks into this…
thing
, and we're discovering how similar we really are underneath it all. Both driven, focused, and enjoy a challenge.
 

 
Grace chimes in. "What happens when you get into an argument and you storm out all proud but you can only go as far as down the hall?"

"What happens," Heath cuts in, "when you two want to screw but you both live with other people?"

"Good thing you're not staying long," Jackson says.
 

But Heath goes on as if he didn't hear him. "Where
do
you guys screw, anyway?"

"That's a good question," Grace says. "I've never heard a peep. They must be like ninjas in bed."

"No coupling noises at our place, either," Heath adds.

"There's lots of places to screw in the city," Delilah says, her dreamy voice low. "More than most cities I've been to, honestly. One time—"

I throw my hands up. "Okay, that's enough. Where we screw is none of your business."

As I say this, I stare right at Heath, but he's looking past me at his brother. I glance over just in time to see Jackson mouth the word,
everywhere.

Grace snorts into the napkin she's dabbing her mouth with and Heath does a triumphant fist pump.
 

Grace and Heath? There's something there. I can see it, the way they feed off each other's antics. It worries me. Not because I don't think Heath is good for her but because…

"So, Jackson," Grace starts, her innocent expression almost deceiving me, "did you ever hear about the time Samantha staged a silent demonstration at our high school to protest the junior class having to dissect frogs in biology class? She painted her face green and handcuffed herself to a heater in the principal's office."

Jackson smiles sideways at me and I already know what he's thinking. "Handcuffs,
eh
?"
 

"Principal Wilson wasn't so excited about it, I'll tell you that much."

Jackson hooks an arm around my back and nudges me closer, bringing his lips to my ear as he whispers, "Were you wearing a school-girl outfit?"

"We never dissected frogs again, though," Grace points out, too busy taking a sip of wine to have noticed Jackson's whispering or my reddened face.

"Yeah, but I blew my shot at the college I wanted when I got suspended. So, I hope those frogs I saved appreciated my sacrifice."

"I'm sure they did, baby," Jackson says, kissing the side of my head. "How could they not?"

Baby
. Butterflies tear through my stomach. It's the first time he's called me a pet name other than freckles. I usually hate them. But the way he said it, so genuine and heartfelt, I have no choice but to melt into a large puddle where I sit.
 

I have a feeling I've got a whole lot more melting to do around Jackson.

THE END

(Bonus scene ahead)