Page 23 of Royal Darling
I get quiet, trying to think of what that might be. What are my strengths? I know self-defense and how to pick a lock thanks to Adam. And I’m fluent in French, Spanish, Italian, and Mandarin Chinese. I was working on Malay for my new life in Kainei with Abdul, but it wasn’t gelling. Maybe that was a sign that I didn’t want to continue down the path set out for me. I lie there, staring at the back of Jackson’s head. His dirty-blond hair is messy and sticking up near the top. I find it endearing. I smooth down the messy hair, sigh, and roll to my back, staring at the ceiling, wide awake.
A very long time later, Jackson turns his head toward me and opens his eyes. “Hey.”
“Hello.”
He sits up and swings his legs over the side of the mattress away from me. My shoulders droop. All this time cuddled next to him and sharing to his unconscious self made me feel kind of close to him. I thought when he said lock the door earlier he ultimately wanted some intimacy.
“Do you find me tempting?” I ask softly.
He rests his elbows on his knees. “Emma,” he says on a sigh.
“Do you?”
He looks over his shoulder at me. “I find all women tempting. Nothing personal.”
I huff and scramble out of bed.
“Did I insult you?” Not waiting for an answer, he heads for the en suite bathroom.
“No,” I tell his retreating back. “I was just curious. Now that that’s out of the way, we can start guitar lessons.”
“Wait there.” The bathroom door shuts.
I wait so long it’s ridiculous. It sounds like he’s taking a shower. A vision of a naked, wet Jackson fills my mind vividly. His damp hair slicked back, the hard planes of his chest. He’s hung, I’m sure of it. In my vision he is. Thick and hard because of me. Because I’ve tempted him more than any other woman he’s ever seen. Heat pools low in my belly as I imagine my lips on that gorgeous body, his scent, his taste.
Eep! I jump as the bathroom door pops open suddenly, steam billowing out.
He has a white towel wrapped around his waist, his hair slicked back just like in my lusty fantasy. He rubs a hand over his beard. “When I said wait there, I didn’t mean literally in that spot. Why don’t you get my guitar and strum it a bit, get comfortable with it, yeah?”
“Oh, sure, and you’ll just be…” My gaze follows his amble to his duffel bag in search of clothes.
He tosses the bag on the bed. “Having a cuppa.” He grins.
I smile at his playfulness. It’s almost flirty, though I shouldn’t read too much into it. He did say he likes all women. I turn away, worrying my lower lip and telling myself to stop hoping so much. But this is the new me, reaching out for what I want, and the fact is I’m here and all those other women are not. I allow myself the pleasure of staring at his wide bare chest, the light dusting of hair, the lines and grooves of muscle, the bulge of his briefs.
“Guitar is right behind you,” he prompts.
My cheeks flush with heat. I take the hint, turning to the guitar case propped in the corner next to the closet. I lower it to the floor and open it, my ears tuned in to the rustle of clothes as he dresses, my imagination filling in the magnificent details. The rustling stops a few moments later, so I assume he’s done. I pull out a glossy acoustic guitar with black inky designs drawn over the face of it, swirls and starbursts. This guitar has been well loved. I’m actually a little surprised he’s letting me handle it by myself. I carefully remove it from its case and bring it with me, taking a seat on the cushioned bench next to the foot of the bed.
He joins me there, wearing a gray T-shirt with ripped jeans, feet bare. He smells delicious, like soap and something distinctly him, so masculine and sexy. “Here, let me tune it.”
I watch as he plucks different notes, strumming a few chords and adjusting the knobs on the back.
He hands it to me. “Are you right-handed?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, so the way you’re holding it is good. Is that comfortable?”
“Very.” It’s not exactly, but I’m just honored to be holding his prize possession.
“Loosen up your wrist.” He points at it. “Start with a scale. Easy.” He demonstrates with an air guitar, plucking strings. “G, A, B, C, D, E, F, G.”
My brain can’t make the connection, so I hand him the guitar. “Here, you do it and then I’ll try to imitate. I need to see it on the real thing.”
“Maybe I should pull up some YouTube videos.”
“I’m here foryou. You’re the expert, not some random stranger on the internet.”
