Page 70 of Enemies Off Camera
That’s all he needs.
Jaxon moves over me like a storm. My hands spread across his chest—warm, firm, perfect. His skin is satin over stone, and I melt beneath him.
Then I’m on my back, his weight heavy on top of me, grounding me, surrounding me.
And then—finally—he enters me.
He stretches me open, slowly, deliberately.
He thrusts.
I gasp.
I moan.
I amfullof Jaxon Wilde.
We are no longer fake.
We are real—here, now, in every thrust, every breath, every inch of this wild, breathless, all-consuming moment.
FIFTY
The sun is up, and Jaxon and I haven’t slept a wink. We still can’t keep our limbs—or mouths—to ourselves. He’s gone down on me so many times I’ve lost count. Each time, his tongue laps my clit with precision, taking me from zero to one hundred in a matter of seconds.
And don’t get me started on when he finally unclipped my bra—ceremoniously, like it was some kind of sacred act—and sank both my breasts into his warm, greedy mouth. The way he used his tongue and teeth? It was like every nerve in my nipples had been lit on fire.
The man is... highly skilled.
The sheets on his bed got so soaked that after my legs gave out—again—he carried me to another room. All white. Hotel-chic. Five-star everything. That’s where we are now, tangled in each other, his lips on the bare skin of my back.
“Shit,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. “I’m gonna sleep straight through the flight to Jacksonville. And the rest of the day. Without you.” There’s frustration in his voice—because this has to end soon. Two weeks apart might as well be forever.
I flip over, needing to see his face. Hisstupidly gorgeousface. I kiss him again, drunk on his mouth, but have to pull back before I float right into unconsciousness.
So we just lie there, eyes locked, exhausted but unwilling to close the space between sleep and goodbye.
“Can I ask you something?” he finally says.
I raise a brow, nodding.
“The other night, when I came to your door… You’d been crying, hadn’t you?”
The question hits harder than I expect. It brings it all back—the weight I’d shoved down.
“Yes,” I whisper.
“The kiss didn’t upset you?”
“No,” I breathe, kissing him softly. “It was... family shit.”
His eyes flash with concern. “What kind of family shit?”
“My father,” I say. “He’s on life support. On a breathing machine.”
Jaxon immediately props himself up like he’s ready to call someone, fix something.
I place both hands on his chest—my favorite chest—and press him gently back down. “It’s okay. I’m not close to him. Or his family.”
