“Not really. I’m tired and she woke me; that puts her on my shit list. I also saw more of her than I ever want to again. Not to mention the god-awful image of you two fucking that’s now seared into my memory. That makes me hate her. It doesn’t make me that fond of you either.”
“You’ve changed your tune from earlier. You were all ‘kiss me, fuck me’ in the bathroom. I still can’t get the image of your glorious breasts thrust up in that bra out of my mind,” his voice is dangerously seductive.
“With sleep comes clarity,” and I’m proud to say I mean that. I’m not letting his sex-god status lure me in again, not until we’ve talked about all the nonsensical, messed up crap that needs talking about.
“Is that so?” His velvet voice is trying to tempt me, like my own personal sex-devil with an arsenal of tantalizing tricks designed to weaken my defenses.
“Yes. And I’d like some more before I tackle you any further.” I huff and roll over, eventually drifting off into a fitful sleep.
* * *
I’m vaguely aware of Jackson sliding into bed with me and that he wraps one arm around my waist, but it’s just one of many jumbled images my mind throws at me.
After a few hours of blood and fang nightmares – a few gratuitous shots of a naked Sonya thrown in for good measure – my subconscious mercifully decides I’ve had enough sleep.
I’m pleased to discover the world is no longer spinning and that the drugs appear to have worn off.
I open my eyes, and in the gloom, they settle on the wall space that only hours earlier, supported a writhing Sonya as she was skilfully fucked by the sexy man sleeping next to me… the man who still has his arm draped around my waist.
I don’t like it.
I don’t like much of what’s happened this evening, And I especially don’t like how pathetically my body betrays me and responds to Jackson Smoak so completely.
It’s like my body is giving him a free pass to be intimately pressed against me mere hours after fucking Sonya and that’s not okay. Does monogamy mean nothing to these frat-boy assholes?
And what about those things he said to her when she came to his room? I can still hear him telling her, quite horribly, that she’s replaceable and what she offers is paid for by him giving her multiple orgasms.
I’ve never been with a man who could do that.
Stop, brain. Get back in your box. I get that some part of me wants to be fucked by Jackson, but that voice needs to shut the hell up. There are bigger priorities than my visceral reaction to the man-whore next to me.
I roll my eyes and sit up, fed up with silently arguing with myself.
I don’t need an orgasm so badly that it negates all of the convoluted things Jackson has said to me.
‘I’ll explain when you’re rational enough to deal with the answers’…what does that mean?
And the way he talks about us, with such familiarity…I’ve only just met the sex-fiend. He confuses me in a way that really hurts my head.
“Can’t sleep, Angel?” Even thick with sleep he sounds seductively dangerous.
“Since when did I become your ‘Angel’?”
“It’s a term of endearment,” I don’t fail to notice that he avoids the question.
“Okay, since when did I become dear to you? Because I genuinely feel like I’ve time-warped and missed the part where I got to know you. Usually, I like to have that experience before getting naked in front of a guy and then hopping into bed with him.”
He rubs his tired eyes and grumbles himself into a sitting position – showing me exactly why I let my desire lead me astray and into his bed. I mean, really, who has abs like that?
“Firstly, if you could’ve ‘hopped’ anywhere you wouldn’t have needed to be in my bed. You were drugged and I wanted to keep you safe because secondly, you’ve been dear to me for a very long time,” he says, an edge of worry to his otherwise confident voice.
“You met me on Monday. I get that you guys are hot enough to go through plenty of women, but there’s something very wrong with you if you think five days counts as a long time,” I reply flatly.
He just looks pointedly at me.
“Unless of course you genuinely mean a very long time in some sort of creepy, stalker type way?” I say, my voice shaky with increasing concern.
How the hell has he known me for a long time?
If we knew each other before this week, I’d remember…wouldn’t I?
“The latter, but a little less of the ‘creepy, stalker’ remarks, please. And while we’re at it, a few less man-whore insults would also be nice. I’m far from perfect with more flaws than I’d care to count; I don’t need you throwing extra at me.”
“I’ll throw them if they’re deserved.”
For a moment, Jackson looks wounded, but then his whole demeanor changes and I get a glimpse of the stony eyes that Sonya was probably treated to earlier…I’ve pissed him off.
“I don’t get this version of you. At all. I know you’re attracted to me and I’ve made it pretty damn obvious I feel the same. I’ve also bent over backward to be a gentleman toward you and keep you safe. So, tell me what it is that I’ve done that upsets you so much? I’d think it was Sonya, but you’ve been off with me since I sat with you on Monday?”
“Sonya, me, the cheerleader groupie from last Friday…exactly how many women do you have on the go? And how can you behave like I mean so much to you, because if I really did then why were you fucking her when you were supposed to be with me?”
“I don’t have women ‘on the go’, not in the way you think. And I do very much care about you, but I told you not to come around after nine.” He’s doing the strained, angry whisper thing that people do when they’re mad but don’t want the world to know it.
“That’s not an answer, Jackson. ‘I like you, but don’t come around too late as you’ll catch me fucking the other woman I like’…do you even know the meaning of monogamous?”
“I’m rapidly getting to the point where I can’t stand Sonya, quite frankly. And I can’t explain it all to you now, as you’re too mad to listen and attempt to understand.”
“You’re right about that. I don’t understand any of the convoluted things you’ve said to me,” I say, my voice rising with irritation. “You say strange things like not liking this version of me and you act like you’ve known me for much longer than we have. You look me straight in the eyes, my real ones, and you don’t so much as flinch and that’s not normal. You don’t even freak out when I tell you about the most disturbing dream I’ve ever had – one that has been haunting me for years. You’re in that dream…did you miss that bit? Because, honestly, if someone I only just met had a dream like that about me, I would be deeply concerned. This is me pissed off before I’ve even taken into account the mixed messages you’re sending by fucking someone else. I don’t understand any of it.” I’m not trying to keep my voice down at this point. I’m exasperated and confused.
“You’ve had the dream for years?”
“That’s what you’re taking away from what I just said? Yes, I’ve had the damn nightmare for years. But don’t panic, your face wasn’t in it until I met you on Monday. I’d never had the ballroom aspect of the dream before then either. That’s what I saw the first time you looked at me and before then the man in the dream didn’t have a face.” I’ve had enough at this point and start hunting around for my clothes.