I grip his hand tighter, hoping to give him the strength to continue. He turns his head and finally looks at me. “I ran into her bedroom and saw my mother's poor excuse for a one night stand with his pants around his ankles while he was standing over her bed.”
“Oh my god.” My hand flies to my mouth. “Please tell me he didn't.”
He shakes his head. “He didn't. With strength I didn't even know I possessed, I charged at him. I threw him right out the door and beat the shit out of him. Then I told him if I ever saw his face again I would finish him. When I went back into Lilly's room, she was shaking and refused to speak. Finally, after an hour or so had passed, she told me she was thirsty. It was around Christmas time and we didn't have much.”
I look at the mug. “But you had hot chocolate, cinnamon, and whipped cream,” I finish for him.
He nods. “Yeah. After that day, it became her favorite. We were all each other had and I promised her that I would always protect her. In addition to taking up mixed martial arts, I slept on the floor in her bedroom at night, every night.” He pauses. “Well, up until my mom died and she didn't have to fear her dirtbag boyfriends anymore.”
I rest my head against his shoulder, tears prickling my eyes for all that he's endured. “You were an amazing big brother.”
“I tried to be. I wanted to be. She deserved that. She was an amazing person. She was brilliant, sweet, compassionate- everything that was right in the world. She was going places. She got into Harvard, she wanted to make a difference.” He draws in a shaky breath. “I didn't tell her often, but I was so proud of her.”
I grab his hand tighter, mustering up the courage to ask the question that I don't want to ask, but I have to. “What happened to her, Jackson?”
He leans back against the headboard, his face portraying so much grief and agony, I'm about to tell him that he doesn't have to answer.
“She was murdered.”
His words hang in the silence between us.
“Did her killer pay?”
He looks at me and his eyes darken. “Not nearly enough.”
I fight the involuntary shiver that crawls up my spine.
It's clear that he's not up to talking about this anymore because he turns and flicks off the light.
I lie on the bed beside him, both of us flat on our backs, not saying a word- our fingertips almost touching.
I never knew how comfortable silence could be until now. But as comfortable as it is between us, I need something else.
I turn and position myself on top of him, my legs on either side of him. His eyes open wide at first, but he visibly relaxes when I slide down until my head is flat against his chest.
I can feel every defined muscle his body encompasses. Every ripple of his abs, how hard and broad his chest is. And I'd be lying to myself if I didn't admit that it causes a physical reaction to stir in me, but this closeness is different than any other I've experienced.
“I hate murderers,” I mumble with a yawn. “I'll never understand how cruel and inhumane someone's soul must be in order to take another life. It's unforgivable.”
His body tenses beneath me and I know it's because he probably feels the same. “I wish everyone could be good like you, Jackson,” I whisper before I close my eyes.
His hand skims up the length of my back, hesitantly at first, until I nuzzle against him and he begins drawing slow circles along my spine, lulling me to sleep.
I have no more bad dreams that night.
I do, however, dream about Jackson.
Sunlight peeks in from the corner of the curtain covering the window in his bedroom.
I look down. One heavy and muscular leg is tangled between two of mine.
We must have dislodged ourselves from one another in the middle of the night.
Well, somewhat.
His back is partially turned away from me and my eyes practically pop from their sockets when I notice that he's shirtless, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers.
His broad back is a sight to behold and my breathing hitches in my throat.
When my eyes travel further down, lust crashes into me like a damn tsunami.
A portion of the comforter is draped and bunched up just under that mouthwatering, sculpted V of his, which unfortunately for me...happens to be hiding something that I'm very interested in seeing at the moment.
I fight back and forth with my conscience before deciding that if the roles were reversed, I might not like it if he tore back the covers in order to get a better look at my goods.
But then again, I don't look like him.
His body is a work of art. When I look at him, I see the hours of training and discipline, I see the strength he possesses, the well-oiled machine he's molded himself into.
Jesus. Who am I kidding? I definitely wouldn't mind Jackson getting a better look at me. I wouldn't mind Jackson showing any kind of sexual interest in me at all.
The thought surprises me, because although I use sex as a way of coping and punishing myself...the one thing I don't use sex for is my desire.
It hits me and I realize how much I've been missing out on.
The question is...does Jackson want me even half as much as I want him?
Like the saying goes, there's only one way to find out.
Since his front isn't facing my back, I'm unable to grind myself against him and feign innocence when he catches on, leaving the ball in his court.
That means I have no choice but to take the initiative and put myself out there.
It's something I've done more times than I care to think about, but for some reason, I've never been so nervous about it before.
And that includes that night in the car with Ford, because I knew deep down that he wanted me.
But with Jackson, I really have no idea. He's so controlled and good at keeping his emotions in check.
I bite my lip and prop myself up on one elbow, my front now pressed up flush against his back. I lift one hand and slowly trail my fingers down his chest. Seeing all those muscles is nothing compared to feeling them.
I expect him to wake then, but when I look up his eyes are still closed, his mouth parted slightly.
My fingers find the waistband of his boxers and hover there for a moment. I plant a gentle open-mouthed kiss on his shoulder while I continue tracing the outline of his waistband.
His brows furrow and I think I'm doing something wrong...but then he releases a low and husky groan that goes straight to my core.
Just when I'm about to move the comforter and slip my hand inside the opening of his boxers...I find myself facing the ceiling, with a ginormous weight on top of me.
My wrists are pinned and I'm gasping for air when he settles between my thighs.
The only thought going through my mind is-
Holy. Shit.
When I feel his hardness pressed against my thigh.
“What are you doing, Alyssa?” he asks, his voice raspy with sleep and what I'm hoping is arousal.
I don't answer him because my brain just isn't capable of forming complete sentences right now. Instead, I shift myself so he's exactly where I want him to be and I swear, I die a thousand deaths.
He releases my wrists, grabs a handful of my hair and inhales deeply. “Coconut,” he rasps. I don't understand why he's talking about coconuts when all I want to do is lick him from head to toe, but then he groans and flattens his palms against mine. “I fucking love the way you smell.” He closes his eyes, appearing to be fighting a war within himself. “I bet you taste as good as you smell.”