Page 96 of Burn for You (Slow Burn 1)
Well pick my peas. Dinner should be delightful.
I sat gingerly on the edge of the bed and looked down at him. He stubbornly refused to open his eyes, so I allowed my attention to wander to that exposed strip of skin above his waistband. My finger itched to reach out and lightly stroke that pretty trail of hair. It looked so soft and fine, like down. So inviting.
I bit my lip.
Jackson said softly, “What are you looking at, Bianca?”
My gaze flashed up to his. He was staring at me with so much heat in his eyes I was momentarily speechless. I ripped my gaze away and stared down at the ring on my hand, letting it blind me. “Nothing.”
“Then why is your face the color of that chair in the corner?”
The scarlet chair, he meant. I closed my eyes. “Now who’s the honey badger?” I muttered.
After a long, tense moment of silence, Jackson slowly reached out and took my hand. He gently placed it on his stomach, then flattened his hand over it so my palm rested against his warm, bare skin.
His voice a low, sandpaper rasp, he said, “Were you looking at this?”
I said, “Don’t be silly,” but we both knew I was lying.
He grasped my forefinger, touched the tip of it to the fine down of hair beneath his belly button, and whispered, “This?” Using my finger like a paintbrush, he traced it slowly downward until it hit the top button of his jeans.
A violent tremor rocked me, but I didn’t open my eyes.
I didn’t move my hand, either.
Jackson lay very still beside me, except for his breathing, which was rough. Radiating heat, his stomach rose and fell under my hand. My heart was like a pealing bell.
He whispered my name. It was so sweet on his lips, such a tender sound. I made a noise deep in my throat, a retort or a plea, I didn’t know which. Big and slightly trembling, Jackson’s other hand stroked up the inside of my wrist.
A loud throat clearing from the doorway, and I jumped from the bed like my butt had pneumatic springs.
“Excuse me, sir,” said a uniformed male servant with a bland face and droopy hound dog eyes. He bowed. “Madam. Do you need anything before supper?”
Jackson sat up, rubbed his forehead, and growled, “No. And in the future your presence isn’t required unless I ring for you.”
The servant bowed again. “Very good, sir.” He disappeared as quickly as he arrived, leaving Jackson and me alone in excruciating silence.
I said, “I’ll just be hiding in the bathroom until dinner if you need me,” and bolted, slamming the door shut behind me. I collapsed against it, fighting for air, wondering how far that little dalliance on the bed would have gone if we hadn’t been interrupted.
Wondering how far I wanted it to go.
From behind the closed door, there might have been a muffled groan.
TWENTY-SEVEN
JACKSON
My cock had its own heartbeat. All the blood in my body had pooled in my groin. One lingering look from Bianca and I was twelve years old again, unable to control the sudden shocking flare of hormones that ignited a forest fire in my pants and left me speechless and sweating, and feeling guilty to boot.
Judging by her flight of terror into the bathroom, I was pretty sure I’d just made a fatal mistake.
“You fucking moron,” I said to the carpet as I leaned over the bed with my head in my hands. “You complete, colossal fuckwit.”
I couldn’t even console myself with the memory that we’d already shared two kisses before I lost my mind and almost shoved her hand down my pants. Those kisses didn’t count. They didn’t mean anything, at least to her. The first was simply a ploy to make her ex jealous. The second was simply my infantile ego throwing a fit over being called nonsexual.
Though both kisses were scorching hot—I thought so, anyway—it wasn’t like she wanted to kiss me in either instance. And now here I was again, mistaking what was probably a look of worry or concentration or something else altogether for a look of lust.
Could I be any more of a cliché? If a woman like Cricket couldn’t love me, Bianca Hardwick was the last woman on earth who would.
