Chapter Twenty
Summer quickly combed her hair and pulled it up into a ponytail. It didn’t have to be perfect. Every time Jackson had seen her before, he hadn’t seemed to care what her hair was doing, or whether she had make-up on or not. How strange and wonderful it was to feel completely accepted by another person.
She’d texted him five minutes ago, saying she wanted to see him. He’d written back three words—on my way—and Summer had panicked. Something would happen for them tonight. Either they’d decide to part ways, an idea that killed something inside of her, or they’d decide to keep going, make a real relationship out of what they’d already begun.
She knew which option she wanted. She wanted Jackson.
Someone knocked at the door and she’d dithered in front of the mirror instead of changing her clothes. Her thin pajama shorts and oversized t-shirt would have to do. She rushed from her bedroom to answer the door. But then she stopped before pulling the handle. “Who is it?”
“Jackson.”
She opened the door. He stood before her, his hair slightly messy. He smelled clean and woodsy and she wanted to snuggle against his tight-fitting t-shirt.
“Wow, you were fast,” she said, opening the door wider.
He stepped in, kicking off his shoes. Then he turned to face her. “Summer, I’m so sorry if I’m scaring you off, if I’m moving too fast. It’s just…it’s just that I know what I want, and that’s you. I want a relationship with you.”
The words were barely out of his mouth before Summer stood up on her tiptoes and kissed him. This was her own personal version of heaven, kissing Jackson. He growled quietly before opening his mouth and running the tip of his tongue over her lips. Summer parted her lips, allowing him to deepen the kiss, allowing him to take control. Whatever he was offering tonight, she’d take it. Readily. Joyfully.
His hands cupped her bottom, warm even through her pajama bottoms, and he lifted her up so she could wrap her legs around him. They continued kissing as he carried her from the living room and back into her bedroom. It could have been awkward, being carried like that, but he was smooth, and their kiss was only sloppy for a moment.
It had been a warm October, and the late afternoon sun had heated Summer’s room to almost uncomfortable levels. Jackson tossed her on the bed and reached up to turn on the ancient ceiling fan installed by her landlord. It whirred thickly, a subtle whump, whump soundtrack to Jackson’s languorous movements as he stood over her.
She scrambled to prop herself up on her elbows to see him better as he tugged off his t-shirt. She’d never considered herself moved by the sight of ripped abs or sculpted pecs, but she was definitely moved now. The sexy grin he wore when he saw her looking was like icing on the cake.
He moved his hand to his waistband, and Summer felt her eyes widen when he fiddled with the buttons.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Y-yeah.” She bit her lip, sucked in a breath, and answered more decisively. “Yes.”
“Good. Because Summer, I’ve been wanting you since you first sent me the pufferfish photo on SocialBook. But if you want to stop, any time, you just say the word.”
He’d wanted her since the pufferfish photo? She grinned and nodded. “Got it. Now take off your damn pants.”
He laughed, unbuttoned his pants all the way, then reached in and gave himself a squeeze. Summer couldn’t help the impatient sound that came from her throat. He was such a tease.
But two could play at that game.
She bit the corner of her lip, locked eyes with him, then squeezed one of her own breasts, allowing her fingers to crimp her nipple briefly. A sharp desire-pain shot straight to her clit.
Jackson’s nostrils flared. He let go of his cock and let his hands fall loosely to his sides.
“More,” he said in a strangled voice.
Summer didn’t break eye contact with him as she moved her hand into the front of her shorts. She traced the edge of her panties, then dipped her fingers inside. She was already wet, so ready, so turned on.
Jackson growled and shoved his pants and boxers down. Before he could climb onto the bed next to her, Summer sat up quickly and took his cock in her mouth. The opportunity to taste him again was too good to waste.
“Fuck,” he muttered. “Your mouth. Fuck. Summer…”
He was salty, the skin soft, the cock hard, engorged. She swirled her tongue around the tip and he sucked in a quick breath, tangled his fingers in her hair. She gripped his ass, pulling him closer, taking him in as far as she could.
When she took her mouth away, he moved his fingers along the sides of her jaw, over her lips. His cock was wet and even more swollen than before.
“Condom?” he asked.
She pointed to her nightstand. He found the pack she kept in there, tore one of the wrappers open, and rolled the condom on. Then he pressed her back on the bed and lay down on his side so he faced her.
His cock brushed up against her bare leg, an insistent reminder that neither of them had found their satisfaction yet. But instead of ripping off her shorts like she wanted him to do, he drew her closer and kissed her sweetly, tenderly. His lips were firm but slow, like he and Summer had all the time in the world. He ran his hands over her back and ass and legs, up and down, the friction both erotic and maddening.
He was naked, she was still clothed. That needed to change, because she wanted to feel all of his skin pressed against hers. While they kissed, she struggled out of her t-shirt. She broke their kiss so she could toss the shirt aside, then looked back to see that he was smiling at her.
“What?” she asked.
“You seem…ruffled.”
“Ruffled?” She laughed. “If we don’t start banging in ten seconds, I’m kicking you out so I can take matters into my own hands.”
His laughter rumbled through him. “As my lady wishes.”
He stopped rubbing his hands over her back in order to help take off her shorts and panties. She unhooked her bra and tossed it to the floor.
With her ex, this had always been the part where she felt self-conscious. Completely naked, right before the actual sex part of the sex act. She checked in with herself, but didn’t find any of that self-consciousness. Maybe it was the way Jackson stroked her skin, or the reverent look in his eyes as he reached out to caress her cheek.
“No more waiting,” Summer grumbled, then threw a leg over his hip.
His length nudged against her entrance. The angle wasn’t quite right, so she reached down to guide him in and—
“Right there, yes,” Summer breathed.
She liked this position. Neither of them was on top, and they could look at each other and move as fast or slow as they wanted. She could use the leg she’d moved over his hip to pull him closer and help control the speed and angle.
It turned out that she didn’t need to control much. Jackson seemed to take cues she wasn’t even giving. As soon as she thought of how to get more stimulation to her clit, his hand was there. When she leaned forward slightly, wanting his lips on hers, he met her right away.
Every stroke of him inside her, the sounds of their panting breaths, the dusty, spicy scent of Jackson, the taste of the salt on his shoulder when she pressed a biting, sucking kiss there—it all built higher and higher within her until she was nothing but sensation. And as she cried out, he thrust faster within her until he, too, was coming. Their bodies tensed and they rode the aftershocks together, gripping each other tightly.
Jackson eased out of her and got up to dispose of the condom, while Summer rolled onto her back and tried to re-learn how to breathe.
He padded back in from the bathroom and lay down next to her.
“It’s never been quite that…magical for me,” she whispered.
“Me, neither.”
Her eyes felt heavy, dreamy. She felt tired and protected and so warm.
“I know it’s soon,” Jackson whispered into her hair, “but it’s been coming over me since we started chatting on SocialBook. I love you, Summer Grieb.”
She nestled into his arms, not caring that it was just slightly too hot for cuddling, and said, “Y’know what, Jackson Jaynes? I think I love you, too.”
“Oh, you think so, huh?” he asked, voice teasing.
“Gimme another second…okay. Yeah. I know I love you.”
He kissed the top of her head.
The fan stirred the air above them, cooling the sweat on Summer’s skin. She stretched her arms once, yawned, and fell asleep.
*
She hadn’t been sleeping long, she didn’t think, except it was completely dark outside. She sat up, feeling disoriented. It must have been hours since she dozed off in Jackson’s arms.
And he’d said he loved her—and she’d said it back, knowing that it was true.
Just a few days ago, she hadn’t even wanted a boyfriend. A one-night-stand to scratch the itch, maybe. But a boyfriend? And now, she was telling this guy she’d just met that she loved him.
But how else to explain the peaceful, joyful, warm feeling that spread through her chest whenever she thought of Jackson? And it had been happening from long before they’d met in person, if she was honest with herself. He’d been slowly chipping away her defenses with every SocialBook message he’d sent.
Jackson wasn’t next to her in bed. The place he’d been felt warm beneath her hand. She listened to see if maybe he was in the bathroom.
Instead of the sink running or the toilet flushing, though, she heard something coming from outside. Growling.
A part of her wanted to cower under her blankets until Jackson came back, but the other part of her needed to find out what the hell was going on. She looked around her room. She had no weapons, no heavy sports equipment or guns or knives.
But her scrapbooking supplies were out, shoved into the far corner where she hadn’t put them away the other day, and her giant hole puncher was good and heavy—fifteen pounds of very serious hole-punching. She threw on her t-shirt and underwear, then grabbed the hole punch.
The living room was lighter than her bedroom because the bright digital clock on the stove shone directly in from the kitchen. As soon as she stepped out of her room, she saw Jackson, standing next to the window. He was stark naked and staring outside. It was pitch black out there—what could he possibly see?
Before she could ask him, he strode to the front door, opening it.
“Jackson, what are you doing?” she whispered.
“Stay here, please,” he said, turning to face her. “It isn’t safe out there.”
“Don’t go out there,” she whisper-yelled across the living room. “You don’t even have your clothes on.”
His mournful look was barely discernible in the light from her stove clock. “I have to. I’m being challenged.”
And then he was gone.