Page 29 of Kiss Marry Kill
This wasn’t the time and he shouldn’t have even let what had just happened get that far. He couldn’t have done anything about the guy calling, but he could’ve been more prepared to deal with it, if his head hadn’t been on the way Megan smelled or felt. She was a far too tempting a distraction that would make his job of protecting her impossible. “Good night, Megan,” he repeated, his tone final.
* * *
Annoyed at the quick change in Jax from something finally happening to closed-off Marine, Megan didn’t even bother wishing him a goodnight when she walked up the stairs to her room. It’s not as if he would’ve listened anyway—he was already back outside in security mode. Jax was overreacting, there was a big possibility that it had just been a wrong number. That happened all the time, and not just to her . . . to everyone. Even though the breathing, almost panting, had sent shivers down her spine.
Quickly changing into pajamas, she grabbed her notebook, sat on the bed, and tried to write. Lately, lyrics hadn’t been coming easily, but tonight the words were flowing as she pushed down thoughts about the call and focused on what had almost happened with Jax. Talking about Ryan had been tough, but the second Jax had pulled her into his arms, her emotions had gone from scared to . . . something else. Her pulse had raised, her heart had fluttered and damn . . . her nipples had gotten uncomfortably hard. It had always been that way with Jax. When he was around, everything else faded into the background.
Megan had only ever begged a man to kiss her once—that horrible kiss cam moment five years ago—but she wasn’t above doing just that when it came to Jax. Everything between them was complicated, but even as he had wavered between pushing her away and pulling her closer, Megan had found her mind drifting to how his beard would feel when they kissed. It was soft under her hands. But on the sensitive skin on her face, or between her thighs, would it tickle or would it feel rough? For some reason the thought of it feeling a little rough was alluring. Something about the thought of having the redness, the proof he’d been there long after he’d finished, was arousing. But the ringing of her phone had shattered the delicious tension, and then the mood had shifted once again.
With all the confusing feelings pouring through her veins, it was easy to make it all into music. After all Jax had always been her best source of inspiration. The words flew from her pen: lust, loss, rediscovery, the pang of reuniting. At some point—two minutes or two hours later—emotionally and physically exhausted, she fell asleep.
Startling abruptly, the paper of her notebook sticking to her face, Megan sat up, disoriented, in the dark. A noise—something like a whimper—sounded in the hallway outside her bedroom.
Her mind whirled. Was it an intruder? Thoughts and images were racing through her head when she heard another whimper, louder this time—almost like an injured animal—coming from just outside the room. She started to walk to the door uncertainly, hopping from one foot to the next, unsure of what to do. Should she investigate? Where was Jax? The quiet cry came again and Megan didn’t stop to think. Whatever the noise was, hiding behind her bedroom door wasn’t going to help anything. With a shaking hand, she quietly turned the knob and cracked the door open a sliver.
Right by her bedroom door, on the floor, sat Jax, his legs outstretched, his arms crossed over his chest, his head thrashing from side to side. His eyes were shut tight and there was a muscle spasming on his cheek. His features were distorted, full of anguish and pain. Throwing the door the rest of the way open, Megan kneeled down next to him.
“Jax!” She shook him carefully but he just continued to grumble and move around. “Jackson!”
He threw his head back, banging it against the wall, and impulsively grabbed her wrists. So tightly she winced. “Jax, it’s me. It’s just me, Megan. You’re having a nightmare.”
She didn’t pull away, afraid of what his reaction would be to the sudden action in this confused state. Instead she continued to whisper to him, nonsense words, sounds, phrases, about how it was just a nightmare and to come back to her until his thrashing settled and his muscles tensed with awareness.
“Hey,” she whispered softly when his eyes finally opened. “It’s just me, Megan.” From the way he looked at her—through her—it was obvious he was still disoriented. “It’s okay, you were just dreaming.”
Sharply, he released her hands and stood up, heaving for air. “Hey, you’re okay. It’s okay,” she soothed, rubbing her hands over his arms.
“Fuck.” His voice was rough, gritty with sleep and the shadow of nightmares. The cloudy look was gone from Jax’s eyes, and Megan could see him assessing the hallway, his position, her. Those sharp eyes lingered over her sleep-rumpled shirt, her hair, before setting on where her hands still rested on his forearms and her wrists. Realization set in when he saw his grip. Quickly, he grabbed her hands in his own, his grip now firm but infinitely gentle, while he moved her wrists side to side in the dim hallway light. “Goddamn it!” his voice whispered in a breath. “Megan, did I hurt you?”
“No,” she said, still kneeling, her hands out—defensively, or maybe cautiously? “Not at all. Are you okay? Why were you on the floor?”
“Guess I dozed off.”
“On the floor?”
He brushed her question aside. “Sometimes I have nightmares.” He ran his hands through his hair distractedly. Now he was looking anywhere but at Megan. And didn’t that just piss her off a little. His posture seemed defeated somehow, vulnerable in a way she’d never seen him before, and as he stood and walked away she was left crouched on the floor feeling like she’d been hit by a truck.
What the hell had just happened?
With a sense of unease, she followed him into her guest bedroom. She found him sitting on the foot of the bed, his elbows on his knees and his head resting on his palms. Careful not to touch him, since he seemed completely detached and unapproachable, she sat right beside him.
“Can you tell me what you were dreaming about?”
He seemed so distraught, her heart broke for him. “No.” His tone left no room for further questions, and she didn’t want to pry and make him feel any worse, either.
“At least tell me if there’s anything I can do to help. You say it happens sometimes. What helps?”
“I was prescribed some meds but they make me drowsy and I can’t take them while I’m here supposed to be protecting you.” He growled out the words. Who was he mad at? Her? Himself?
She decided to change the subject since it was obviously a touchy one. And because it made her feel guilty that the poor man couldn’t sleep because he was helping her. “Okay. How about you tell me why you were sleeping by my door.”
He didn’t say a word, he just kept his face down. Slowly, he turned to her, pain marring those beautiful emerald eyes. She couldn’t not comfort him, she had to do something.
She grabbed one of his hands and held it. “Tell me . . . please.”
“I don’t sleep a lot and the house isn’t totally secure just yet. Not the way I want it to be, at least. And your room is so goddamn far from all the other rooms. . . .”
“It’s just next door to yours.”
