“Jackson,” I whisper. My shorts are bunched up so they resemble underwear and I'm certain that he can feel the wetness between my legs seeping through the material.
And then he thrusts and I feel every single inch of him. Including something I never expected. Something that pushes my own arousal into overdrive.
He lifts his hips and just when I think he's about to end the slow torture and fuck me, he rolls off of me.
I climb on top of him and straddle him, but his hands press down on my thighs rendering me unable to move. “No,” he says firmly.
“Why not?”
Then it hits me. Why the hell would Jackson want a girl like me?
I'm used up, washed up and fucked up.
“Hey.” He lifts my chin to look at him. “Whatever you're thinking right now, cut it out. It's not you, it's me.”
“Wow,” I scoff. “You won't even fuck me but you're already hitting me with the old 'it's not you, it's me.”
I move my face away from his touch. “I'd rather you just be honest and tell me you'd rather not stick your dick in a dirty whore.” I laugh. “Trust me, I understand.”
I raise my thighs and attempt to get off him but he clamps down harder, holding me in place. “And that right there is why this can't happen, Alyssa.”
I roll my eyes. “Whatever. Don't bother letting me down easy. I don't blame you for not wanting a slut.” He groans and lifts his hips pushing his thick erection into me. “Does this feel like I don't want you?”
He shifts and pulls us into a sitting position. “But the thing is, you're not a whore. That's not your identity, no matter what others may say. You're Alyssa.” His voice drops to a whisper, “But you need to believe it yourself. And I'll only add to your pain if I let you use me as some kind of weapon in order to punish yourself. I don't want to be used by you. I don't want you to put me in the same category as the others. That's why this can't happen and I can only offer you friendship.”
I nod my head in understanding. I have absolutely no argument for that. He has every right to think that I would only be using him. And I don't want to take advantage of him, no matter how much my own heart, mind, and body are in disagreement when it comes to him.
I need to sort out my feelings and make some serious decisions before I pursue anything with him again.
I climb off of him, wishing the disappointment that fills my chest would stop. I wish that everything was different and that I was a normal almost 24-year-old.
We turn in bed and face one another, studying each other's faces, not sure what to say next.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
I flush when the thought invades my brain, and before I can stop myself, I utter, “Jackson, do you have a cock piercing?”
He opens his mouth to answer me but starts laughing. My heart constricts because he looks even hotter now. “Wow, that was seriously the last thing I expected you to ask me,” he says between bouts of laughter.
I hit him with a pillow. “Stop laughing and answer the question, jackass.”
“Yes, I have an apadravya.”
“How did that happen?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Well, it wasn't some freak accident if that's what you're asking.”
I groan. “No. I mean, what made you want to get your dick pierced.”
He shrugs. “Tyrone.”
It's my turn to raise an eyebrow at him. “Really? Wow, you turning me down makes even more sense now.”
I swear he flushes when he catches on to what he said. “Fuck. That didn't come out right.”
“Hey, Tyrone's sexy. I can't say that I blame you.”
His nostrils flare and for a moment, I see jealousy flash across his face. “What I meant,” he says through clenched teeth. “Is that Tyrone was the reason behind the piercing.”
I give him a wink. “I bet he was.”
He groans in frustration and pulls me into his arms. “Do you want to hear the story or not?”
I put my finger to my lips. “Hmm, do I want to hear the story about two hot guys getting their cock's pierced? Yes, please.”
He rolls his gorgeous eyes and playfully swats my behind. “Now, you're only getting the cliff notes version. It happened after we both won our first fight at the club. We were at the bar and Tyrone ended up getting drunk when he suddenly announced that he needed to celebrate.”
I can't stop myself from giggling. “And he thought getting an apadravya would be the way to go about that?”
He gives me a lopsided grin. “It gets better. He leaped on top of the bar and declared that he was going to do something very alpha male. He ended it with a giant ‘I am man, hear me roar, fuckers.' ”
I put my hand to my forehead. “Oh god. He didn't.”
He shakes his head. “No, he didn't. Because when we got to the shop, he chickened out on the apadravya. He only has a Prince Albert.” Jackson laughs so hard he begins shaking. “He kept telling the poor piercer to make it look pretty. Crazy thing is, he doesn't even remember getting it done. He screamed like a girl when he took a piss the next morning.”
I can't stop myself from joining in his laughter. “That is an awesome story.”
“It is. I'll never forget the look on Ricardo's face when he walked into the tattoo shop and saw what we were doing. He was mad that we fell off the grid on our first night, but he ended up getting his own piercing as a sign of solidarity.”
I wipe my eyes and scrunch my face. “Fell off the grid? What is he, your keeper or something?”
Jackson's face falls, but our moment is quickly interrupted when some woman yells, “Tyrone Isaac Davis. That is no way to greet Momma. Now put some damn clothes on and tell your lady friend good luck and Godspeed,” in a thick Southern accent.
“Shit. Momma's here.”
“Momma?” I question.
He nods before he throws my jeans at me. “Quick, put these on.”
I do as he says, but can't help but think- What the hell is going on and who the heck is Momma?
Chapter Thirteen
Jackson
One second I'm having one of the best mornings I've ever had...and the next I'm hearing the sounds of Tyrone's mother yelling at him from the next room.
I love Momma, I really, really do. The woman is the closest thing to a real mother I've ever had...but her timing couldn't have been worse.
I was enjoying seeing Alyssa laugh, her smile lighting up the entire room...and that dimple.
That fucking dimple.
It gets me—Every. Single. Time.
I would move mountains for that dimple.
I watch as she slides the tight denim over her hips and tucks my t-shirt, which is at least 2 sizes too big on her small frame into the waistband of her jeans.
Fuck, I love seeing her in my clothes. I have to bite my tongue when she turns around and I get an eye full of that perfect heart shaped ass.
God, the things I want to do to that ass of hers. The things I almost let myself do to that ass of hers.
Fucking hell. Who the fuck was I kidding, thinking that friendship would be enough?