Page 41 of The Devil's Detail
“If you don’t want anyone else, I can stay over for a few days. But I need to be in the city during the day on odd days. I’ll get Baz over then. Until Ash is up and running again.” He points outside the house. “I can stay in the guest bungalow. I won’t be too intrusive then.”
“Jackson, no. You can stay in the house. Ash does on occasion.” Well that is a bit of a lie. He stayed once, when I was drunk, to make sure I wasn’t sick. “So I’ll get the guest room set up for you.”
I have to stop staring at him. I go for cool, channelling all my acting skills. Christ, this is like a runaway freight train coming at me. He’s here in my house overnight. It’s unstoppable. And to be honest, I’m happy to be squished. Please, squish me harder… And faster.
26
Jackson
Carter at homeis a different beast compared to him in the city or out of the country. I can’t believe how relaxed he is. I can’t believe how relaxed I feel here. It’s like we’ve rewound the clock back to Scotland.
“Are you sure there isn’t anyone else you want here?” I ask him almost daily, but it’s obvious he doesn’t have anyone else, not really. I find it so sad. I know my family are the ultimate meddlers, but I also know if I rang they would drop everything and come. But Carter doesn’t have any siblings. He is totally alone, he only has paid help. And even though technically I am, too, I’m also a friend. I would come whether he was paying or not.
“Are you cooking tonight, sugar?”
I grin. Carter’s southern drawl has gotten more pronounced the longer we’re here alone. I think he loves it, letting it all hang out without any worry about anyone judging him. I love it when he does it. It makes me smile and think of hot summers and lazy days. Yeah, I’m going down that road.
The more time we spend together, the more I see the man he truly is. He's funny, dramatic, caring and considerate. And his arse in yoga shorts… well… As he’s stated on numerous occasions ‘you could bounce a quarter off those cheeks.’
Ash has honed Carter’s body to a glorious thing. And I am happy to lap up and appreciate it. I’ve taken every opportunity presented to watch his body, so fluid, so toned. The man is a God. And, fuck my life, I want him.
It hits me so hard, coming to terms with my attraction. But I don’t stop it. I encourage it, let it pour out of me. However, I often feel that we’re having two different conversations. Our brains and mouths are saying one thing, our bodies saying another. Are you baking? is code for you look amazing in that apron. Take off the clothes and just wear that. Are you cooking Italian? is his code for I love watching your hands make pasta from scratch. Gentle firm strokes.
I’ve watched his eyes dilate every night, and it’s amazing torture.
“Carter, dinners ready.”
We’re sat on his terrace in the early evening sunlight. It’s lovely out here, and we’ve sat most nights here together, but tonight I’ve made a bit of a decision. I'm going to show my hand and see where we’re at. If he isn’t interested in what I’m offering, then fair enough. But I truly feel he is, even though he hasn’t been crazy flirting anymore. Things seem deeper than that now.
I’m not sure what I feel about that. But I’m prepared to give it ago. For at least one night.
27
Carter
The house feelswarm and fluffy. I love it here. I’ve always thought of it as cosy, with its own private beach and an outdoor area to sit and entertain. The outside area with the terracotta tiles on the floor feels homey, accented with lovely wooden furniture to sit on. I spend most of my time in the shade, watching the waves.
But Jackson being here is making my house feel like it’s a home. Even when I’ve had a boyfriend over in the past, it always felt like my house alone, and they were just a visitor. But now, with him here, it feels like ours. I know I might be reading too much into it. He’s here as a friend, as my security. I’m certainly getting ahead of myself.
He cooks, I bake. He brings the light, the laughter, and I feel myself relaxing for the first time in years. I almost feel like myself. And I’d love for him to be my guy, not just my security guy.
The days after my picnic-napping are the best of my life. Jackson and I work out, we go for walks, I talk. I like to talk,especially about me. He laughs.I make him laugh. Gone is the dour, aloof man I’ve become used to seeing on a regular basis, gone is the eye rolling security specialist. He’s relaxed, playful even—a big brown bear, all cute and cuddly.
I think he’d die if I said that to him. But any way you slice it, he’s one motherfucking gorgeous, god-like, masterpiece of a man.
I want to touch. I can’t. I want to lick. I can’t. I want to rip off that fucking T-shirt and sink my teeth into those muscles. But I can’t.
So I sit. I smile and chat and make small talk when all I want to do is make glorious fuckin’ love to the man. Drag those shorts off his magnificent ass, and take that fucking cock out of its fabric hideaway. Rub my cock against it, feel it throb in my hands. I’m practically drooling, my eyes glassy when I catch sight of my face in the kitchen mirror. I really need to rein it in. He’ll know. In fact, I’m pretty sure he already does. I’m just not sure how serious he thinks I am. If he thinks this is more of the same old Carter. Or if he’s caught on that he’s…more.
More. Like the occasional small touches. And he’s not just about the security anymore—every focus of his being is on me. And to say that I like it is the understatement of this millennium.
I don’t think I’m going to survive when he leaves. I want him to stay, I want him to be with me. But not just as a one-night stand, it has to be everything. I don’t want a hookup. I want a relationship—a good ole fashioned boyfriend. No ‘talking’, no ‘chatting’. No casual friend with benefits. I want a DTR, to really and truly define the relationship. I want to shout it from the fucking rooftops. On camera, in a restaurant, at an awards ceremony. I want him with me. Full fuckin’ stop.
And then he cooks me dinner. My heart is clattering at the inside of my chest in excitement. And more importantly, it’s from scratch. Italian. He’s telling me it’s his special meatballsrecipe. A Greek god has rocked up into my kitchen with a flowery apron on and is cooking spicy meatballs.
Settled at the table, I feel like I’m watching myself have dinner. I talk, laugh, and chat with this divine creature, but all the while there’s a barrier. It’s invisible, and he can’t see me, not really. The man with him, touching his leg, brushing his fingers, is not me. But I want it to be.
I can’t let this go on. Either I come clean, or let him move on. He might not be interested, but to be honest, I am not getting those vibes. I’m not sure what vibes I am getting, though. Normally I’m upfront, and so are my partners. We all know the score. But with him, I’m all over the place.
