Page 111 of Burn for You (Slow Burn 1)
My orgasm stole the words right out of my mouth. I bucked and gasped. My body bowed. My fingers dug into his hair, and I exploded.
He hooked his forearm over my belly and held me down as I convulsed. He slid two fingers of his other hand inside me. Clenching hard around them, I screamed.
It lasted forever, or seemed to. Pulsing and heat and flashing lights behind my closed eyelids, the feel of his fingernails breaking my skin. Everything so crystalline clear, so achingly raw I felt exposed on every level, all my nerves on fire and the frantic hummingbird beat of my heart pounding like gunfire in my ears.
When I came back to myself, I was crying.
“Hush, sweetheart,” Jackson crooned, climbing over me. He settled his weight between my legs and nuzzled my neck. I clung to him, overcome, shaking with the aftermath of acute pleasure and a sudden bottomless fear.
Whatever that was, it was something I’d never felt before. And it scared the bejeezus out of me.
“It’s okay,” he whispered, peppering soft kisses all over my cheeks. His heart pounded against my chest, as hard and erratically as mine did. He was so warm and big and comfortable, an enormous man pillow I could burrow into and get lost.
I loved his weight. I loved how he smelled. I loved how tender he was being, this giant of a human who could crush me in one fist but was stroking my face with the care of someone handling fine china. I loved how he made me feel so safe.
I did not love the strange terror that evoked.
When I finally managed to pull myself together, I sniffled in embarrassment and turned my face to the pillow. “Sorry. I’m not normally a weeper after sex. But that was . . .” I shivered and tightened my arms around his neck.
He whispered into my ear, “Don’t apologize. I feel like a sex god right now.”
I cracked open an eye. He was staring down at me, a big, goofy grin on his face. His dark hair was mussed, his blue eyes were alight, and he was so handsome it took my breath away.
Dazed, I said, “You are a sex god, Jax. You’re the Michael Jordan of sex. You’re the Warren Buffett of sex. You’re the Steve Jobs of—”
“Okay,” he interrupted drily. “No more other men’s names out of your mouth while you’re in my bed.”
I smiled at him. “I’m sorry. That was just like . . .” I sighed dreamily. “Wow.”
The light in his eyes grew hotter. H
e whispered, “And that was only act one.”
Fingers crossed there were a dozen more to follow.
Jackson rose to his knees. Staring down at me, he slowly unbuttoned his shirt. It parted under his fingers, revealing his gorgeous hard chest, those abs of steel, that fine dark happy trail I found so enticing. He shrugged the shirt off his shoulders, and I sighed again, wiggling my toes in happiness.
“Goddamn, woman,” he said, his voice husky. “You’re gonna turn me into an egomaniac. You should see those eyes. Filthy.”
I giggled. “You’re very pretty, Jackson. This, especially, is my favorite.” I propped myself up on one elbow and trailed my finger down the soft line of hair on his stomach. His abs quivered under my touch. I glanced up to find him gazing down at me in molten stillness, watching me with predatory eyes.
I had an idea.
I sat up, flattened my hands over his abdomen, and smiled up at him. I pressed a soft kiss to the square inch of warm skin right below his belly button.
He froze. “What’re you doing?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” I teased. Maintaining eye contact, I traced a circle around his belly button with my tongue, then dipped it in.
His sucked in breath made me grin. I was getting an inkling of how my unraveling made him feel, and I wanted more of it.
I wanted him undone.
My fingers found the fly of his jeans. The buttons slid open with the silkiness of melted butter. I pressed a kiss to the small strip of newly exposed skin above his briefs, and Jackson stopped breathing.
When I licked it, he softly moaned.
“Your little tongue,” he whispered, staring at me in fascination. “Your little pink—”
