Page 43 of What Happens In Vegas: Jessa & Jaxon
Mine. All of it mine.
I’ve positioned my lounger to maintain perfect sightlines to my wife and anyone who approaches her. Six months of living together hasn’t diminished my need to protect what’s mine. If anything, having our love out in the open has only intensified my territorial instincts.
The waiter—Arif, according to his name tag—laughs too loudly at whatever clever thing my wife just said. His eyes linger a second too long on the curves barely contained by that scrap of fabric she calls a swimsuit.
My swimsuit.
He doesn’t know I’m watching. That I catalog every flicker of his eyes, every inch they drift from her face.
“Another coconut water for the beautiful lady?” he asks, and I note the way he leans closer.
“That would be wonderful,” JJ says, flashing a brilliant smile.
I lower my book. “Make that two,” I say, my voice carrying easily across the deck of our over-water villa. “And bring the lunch menu when you return.”
The waiter startles, finally registering my presence on the opposite side of the deck. “Of course, sir. Right away.”
When he disappears, JJ turns to me with a frown. “You’re doing it again,” she says.
“Doing what?” I ask, feigning innocence.
“That thing where you mark your territory without actually peeing in a circle around me.” She sits up, adjusting her sunglasses.
“He was staring at your ass.”
“He was not.”
“JJ, I’ve been staring at that ass for years. I know what it looks like when a man appreciates the view.”
She laughs, the sound carrying across the crystal-clear water stretching endlessly around our private villa. “We’ve been together for six months. Don’t you get tired of being so possessive?”
I set my book down and cross the deck to her lounger in four long strides. Leaning down, I brace my hands on either side of her, caging her body with mine.
“Should I get tired of wanting what’s mine?” I ask, my lips a breath away from hers. “The day I stop wanting you, Jessa Jamison, is the day they put me in the ground.”
She rolls her eyes, but I catch the subtle quickening of her breath. My wife thinks she can hide her reactions from me, but I’ve made studying her my obsession.
“I’m not a possession, Mr. Jamison.”
But she doesn’t push me away. Instead, her fingers find the edge of my jawline, tracing the stubble I’ve neglected to shave this morning. The contradiction between her words and actions is purely JJ. She’ll challenge me verbally while her body tells a completely different story.
“Mmm.” I skim my lips along her jaw.
The waiter chooses that moment to return with our drinks. I hear his footsteps falter on the wooden deck.
“Your coconut waters,” he says, voice professional now. “And the lunch menus.”
I straighten unhurriedly, keeping one hand possessively on JJ’s bare shoulder. “Leave them on the table.”
“Will there be anything else?”
“No,” I say, dismissive. I don’t take my eyes off my wife, who’s trying not to laugh.
After he leaves, JJ swats my chest. “You’re terrible.”
“You didn’t marry me for my restraint,” I remind her.
“No, I married you because I was drunk in Vegas.”
