Is he jealous again?
Does he think Nadia and I are a thing?
And do I want to make him jealous?
My sense of fun perks up, eager to play. But another part of me says I should reassure the guy. Because he looks twisted up with envy.
“We’ve been friends for a while,” I say.
One eyebrow rises. “That so?”
He’s cute when he’s jealous. It is going to be hard to resist playing games. “Yes, we are friends. Girls and boys can be friends.”
“I’m aware of that. I have plenty of female friends.”
“And Nadia is one of my many female friends.”
“Great. It’s great to have friends.” It comes out clipped, tight.
And I’ve got to press. I’ve got to know for sure. “Level with me, J. Are you jelly?”
He rolls his eyes. “Not in the least.”
I hold up my thumb and forefinger to show a sliver of space. “Not even a little?”
Jackson swallows roughly, looks away, then returns his gaze to me, like he’s working something over in his head. What’s going through his mind? Is he going to admit it? Deny it?
“Stone, do you want me to be jealous?” It comes out quietly.
And that’s not what I expected him to say.
I expected a yes, or a no, or a sidestep. Not a challenge.
But see, Jackson is a challenge. In so many ways. And I like the challenge of him. Maybe too much. And so much so I admit the truth. “Maybe I do.”
“Why?”
My gaze drifts down to his hands. They’re balled into fists. This is as hard for him as it is for me.
“I wish I knew,” I admit, without any trace of bullshit.
He drags a hand along the back of his neck—a telltale sign of stress.
I hate to be the cause of it. “Hey, man,” I say from across the seat.
Slowly, he turns his gaze to me. “Yeah?”
“She’s a friend. Only a friend.”
His lips are ruler straight for several seconds, then they curve into a small grin, almost one of gratitude.
That look leads me on. Leads me down a path I shouldn’t travel. But I do anyway, saying, “I haven’t been with anyone since . . .” I let the words fall into the space between us, the space that seems to pulse with longing. “I know that’s not a long time, and you’re probably rolling your eyes. But I wanted you to know. There’s no one.”
The grin seems to tug at his lips, and he tries to fight it off. But it pulls, it taunts, it grabs him, and soon enough the smile is all real.
But just as quickly as it appeared, it’s gone. He erases it. “Good to know,” he says, then adds, intensely serious, “And same for me.”
The air between us crackles.
It hums.
His gorgeous hazel eyes blaze. With desire and dirty deeds. With longing and denial. With the same damn battles I’ve been fighting. And I know this week’s been as hard for him as it’s been for me.
There’s an energy connecting us, and I want to embrace it, ride it, give into it.
I want to crawl over to Jackson and ask for his mercy.
I want to tease him, toy with him, play with him.
Slide my hands up and down his chest, dip my face to his neck.
“You and your ‘same for me,’” I murmur. “You’re making this hard for me.”
He breathes out through his nostrils.
Licks his lips.
But he doesn’t move. “It’s hard for me too, Stone.”
In our heated silence, his words from earlier in the week ring in my ears. Life is full of risks. The key to a good life is being smart enough to know which ones to take.
I care about him too much to take another risk.
I close my eyes so I’m not tempted to climb on top of him.
But the images taunt me anyway. They tease me relentlessly, to the point where I’m clenching my fists and trying ruthlessly not to say anything. Like . . .
I still want you.
How about one more one-time-only?
Please tell me you’re as wound up as I am.
It looks like he might be when we step into the elevator at The Extravagant.
I step to the other side, as far away from him as I can be.
We ride in silence, and it’s for the best.
I know it is.
And when I make it to my room without launching myself at him, I chalk this up as a victory.
I unknot my tie, loosen it, tug it off.
I strip off my shirt, my slacks, my leather shoes.
I do the only thing I can think of. Hit the shower and release some tension that way.
And when I step out and wrap a towel around my waist, my phone buzzes.
I dive for it. I swear, no one has raced to his phone faster than I do in that moment.
Grabbing it on the bed, I flip it over, hoping so damn hard. Maybe, just maybe, it’s Jackson saying he’s on the other side of the door. Asking if he can come in.
I’d yank open that door so damn fast. I’d drag him to the bed and pounce on him.
But when I see the name, I smile anyway.
It’s Zane.
“It’s about time. Way to leave a guy hanging,” I say.
“Ha. I’ll do you one better than leaving you hanging. I’m downstairs. Can I come up?”
This must be one hell of a guacamole situation.
15
Stone
“What the hell are you doing in Vegas already?” I swing open the door and wrap my crazy-ass brother in a big hug. “I didn’t expect to see you for a few more days.”
Zane wraps his arms around me as I give a quick hello to Cruz. “Hey, Cruz,” I say to the sturdy guy watching the door. “How’s it going?”
“No complaints. Good to see family, isn’t it?”
“Hell yes,” I say with a huge smile, bringing Zane in harder.
When we let go, Zane knocks fists with Cruz. “How you doing? It’s been a while. How’s your little girl?”
“Isabella’s four now. I can barely keep up with her when I’m home in LA,” Cruz says with a grin.
“Show me pics soon?”
“Absolutely,” he says, and I pull my brother into my suite.
“How the hell are you?” I ask as the door closes.
He lets out a long stream of air. “I had to get out of town. Hitched a ride early.”
“You drove from San Fran?”
“No. Grabbed a cheap flight. Got out of Dodge.”
“Cheap flight? Like that explains you showing up early?” I lead him into the suite. “Spill the beans.”
His green eyes, the same shade as mine, roam me up and down. “Want to put on some clothes?”
I glance at my towel and do the only reasonable thing—rip it off and drop it on the floor. “You show up in my suite and tell me to put clothes on? Dude, do not make me hug you again.”
He cringes, laughing, then covers his eyes. “Do not, under any circumstances, hug me now.”
“Aww. Poor Zane. Can’t handle his big brother having a bigger dick.”
“Can’t handle you showing me your dick,” he says, but he’s still laughing, and that’s a good sign for the situation.
Crossing the room to the bureau, I grab a pair of boxer-briefs and tug them on. “Can’t handle the awesomeness of my dick, you mean.”