Chapter 21
*Jackson*
“A sex symbol becomes a thing. I just hate to be a thing.”
Marilyn Monroe
I don’t have any condoms.
The words were a mantra as I drove to Bitty Johnson’s house on Bandit Lake to launch the big boat; and when I parked my car in Bitty’s driveway; and when I jogged back to the lake and hopped on board. I don’t have any condoms. I don’t have any condoms. I don’t have any condoms.
Technically, I did have one condom. It was in my wallet and had lived there for going on three years. It was probably expired. Therefore, for all intents and purposes, I didn’t have any condoms. And lack of condoms would (. . . should) keep me from doing something stupid, like breaking the rules of our agreement.
Much like the ride over from Jethro and Sienna’s property, Rae and I were silent as we moved around the boat. She knew where I kept everything, and we fell into the routine we’d developed over the last few weeks. Usually, during this time, we’d be laughing and joking and flirting.
I didn’t much want to flirt with her right now. There was only one thing I wanted to do with Rae at present, and I don’t have any condoms.
My mother—yes, good idea, think about your mother—had often said that most humans were visual creatures. She’d follow up this statement by reminding me and my sister that, since humans were visual creatures, they were also ultimately responsible for how they reacted to what they saw.
“Control yourself,” she’d lecture. “Look away if you must, but never act in lust.”
This saying had always made my rebellious sister snort-laugh, and I’d chuckled along. At the time.
But right now? Sitting in the captain’s chair with the awnings all the way down, steering us out to the center of the quiet, secluded lake while mist rose around us and the colors of sunrise streaked across the sky, but I didn’t even notice because RAE!!!
My mother’s words struck a new chord.
“Jackson?”
I pulled in a deep breath, not looking.
Over a month ago, Rae and I had agreed that we wouldn’t touch each other during our Wednesday fishing trips. Each week had been more difficult than the last, but I’d taken measures to reduce the chances of breaking our agreement.
First, I’d filled the cabin in empty boxes and unnecessary supplies. Second, I’d taken myself in hand several times a week to take care of business solo. And third, I’d learned early on to excuse myself and take a breather whenever her company—something she inadvertently did or said that just felt irresistible—became overwhelming.
But seeing Rae this morning, after weeks of getting to know her better, being around her not often enough, and falling deeper every day, dressed like she was, so much of her skin visible to my eyes, I hadn’t been able to draw a full breath since helping her into the truck.
“Jackson?”
“Yes. Sorry.” I shook my head as though to clear it. “I was just thinking about something. Are the awnings okay? I pulled them all the way down, but I can lift them up to get some air.”
“They’re fine. I like the privacy, for now. So what are you thinking about?” In my peripheral vision, I saw her slip into the seat nearest to mine and cross her legs toward me.
“Just—uh—things my mom used to say when Jess and I were teenagers.” We weren’t yet close to the center of the lake.
“Like what?”
Uhhh . . .
“Are you okay?” she asked, an edge of worry in her tone.
“Sorry. I’m hot. Is it hot?” I pulled at the collar of my shirt. I felt hot. And itchy. And uncomfortable. I’d noted the muggy, oppressive quality to the July morning before driving over to get Rae, so I had doused myself in bug repellant. Presently, I felt like I might be crushed by heat, and the sun had just risen. “Maybe we should head back. It’s only going to get hotter.”
Rae breathed a laugh and muttered something under her breath that I didn’t catch.
“Pardon?” I asked.
“I said, ‘I sure do hope so.’”
“You want to head back?” Boone would be gone to work by now, we’d have the house to ourselves. And I can get condoms on the way. You know, just in case.
“No. I meant about it getting hotter. I hope it does get hotter.”
I frowned. “You do?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” Why would anyone want it to be hotter than this? I was so hot, I couldn’t think.
“Because, Jackson, I—would you look at me? Please?”
Attempting to fill my lungs again to no avail, I braced myself as best I could, brought the boat to a stop, and faced her.
Her eyes were wide and, if I wasn’t misreading her expression, she looked anxious, maybe a bit scared.
My ungentlemanly thoughts were eclipsed by concern, and I reached out, grabbing her hand. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m wrong,” she said, standing from her seat and stepping closer. “And I’m sorry.”
“What do you have to be sorry for?”
“Because—and here is a peek into the ridiculousness you’ve signed up for—I am wearing this outfit with hopes of seducing you.”
I’m sure my eyes bugged out of my head as I stood and faced her. “Come again?”
“I wore this outfit”—she swept her hand down the front of her body—“hoping that I’d be able to seduce you. Today. On this boat.”
My attention dropped to the top she had on. The fabric was white and see-through to the smooth skin of her torso and the tiny triangles covering her breasts. It a string bikini. I swallowed thickly as blood rushed south, because I’d thought maybe it was, but I hadn’t looked long enough to confirm one way or the other.
Ladies, here’s a tip. If a man is into you, and you’re in the mood to get laid, wear a string bikini for him. Doesn’t matter where—a beach, a pool, a shower, your bedroom, the family room, even the laundry room—doesn’t matter what’s going on—you’re cleaning the house together, you’re pregnant and cranky, he’s cooking dinner, he’s watching a game on TV—he’ll stop whatever he’s doing and take great pleasure in pulling those strings. Satisfaction guaranteed.
“And I’m sorry,” she concluded, like she’d been speaking, but I’d been too busy thinking about divesting her body of the tiny bathing suit.
That had my stare returning to hers. “I have some thoughts,” I admitted, my voice uneven as some wonderfully dirty visions of us together, imminently together, filled my mind. “But first back up and explain again why you’re sorry.”
“Because I told you I’d let you set the pace, and here I am trying to rush things along. But Jackson—” she shuffled a step closer, and I placed a hand on her waist “—I’m having a difficult time here. It’s been a month, and we only seem to be alone on Wednesdays. And then with what happened on Friday, I can’t stop thinking about you.”
We’d drifted closer, her head tilted back, her lips inches from mine. I played with the tie holding her top in place, working to bring my heart rate back under control before I made a move. Because I would be making a move. The awnings were down, concealing us from all sides except the front, but the reflective glass of the exterior windshield took care of that angle. We weren’t in the center of the lake, but we were far enough away from shore that no one could hear us as long as we weren’t too loud. But I don’t have any condoms.