Page 14 of One Time Only (One Time Only 1)
Not.
But I can right this ship.
I stretch out my legs in front of me. “Anyway, I slept like the dead last night. Didn’t drag my ass out of bed till eleven, and it was beautiful. How about you?”
“I was up early.” His tone is crisp, businesslike. But that’s par for the course with Captain Stoic.
Or should I call him Captain Mostly Stoic? Given that he caved last night with that bone-melting kiss.
“I bet you were. I bet you already did twenty workouts and mastered some new phrases in Spanish. Probably learned to make one of those fold-up boats that slides inside a bottle,” I say, rattling off the man’s hobbies as the car cruises along the Strip.
Jackson says something to me in Spanish. I have no clue what he said, but that’s cool. I still dig his language skills. “See? You act like I don’t pay attention. But I do. I knew you were studying Spanish.”
“We were in Madrid together for one of your shows,” he says, a slight laugh in his voice. “I ordered for you at a café when you needed a morning pick-me-up.”
“And I ordered for us in Paris,” I point out, since I can hold my own with the French language, merci beaucoup. “And the salade Niçoise was epic, along with the wine.”
“I wouldn’t know. I don’t drink on the job.”
“I’m well aware. Since I pay attention. And I paid attention, too, when you mentioned you were studying Spanish, wanting to know more of the language.”
He scrubs a hand across the back of his neck, pressing into his skin, something he does when he’s stressed. “It’s good for the job. To know more languages. And yes, we’ve talked about it.”
“And I remembered. See? That’s impressive.”
He lifts his face, but his hand is still working his neck. “Glad you’re impressed by yourself.”
“And I’m impressed by you knowing song lyrics,” I say, slapping Jackson’s thigh. Oops. Guess I’m not earning all the awards today. But that thigh. It’s like a mass of muscle, and I want to glide my hand up and down it.
In fact, I’d like to kneel between those strong legs, undo his zipper, take him in my mouth, and feel those muscles under my palms as I suck him off.
Maybe that’d make him feel better.
But resistance is the name of my game.
Trouble is, the name of his game seems to be tension. He lets go of his neck, then stretches it back and forth.
It cracks. That sound worries me.
I can relieve that tension. I want to relieve it.
I reach across the back of the limo. My fingers have a mind of their own, and they travel up the back of his neck.
He’s still for a second, then his eyes float closed and his lips part. A sexy breath escapes them.
Even sexier is the faintest groan that comes when I run my fingers into his hair, short and neat and so damn soft.
This is exactly what I promised myself I wouldn’t do.
And there are reasons I need to stop.
But Jackson looks like he’s about to melt. He looks like he needs my hand, my fingers, my touch.
So I let him, let us, exist in this space where touch isn’t a violation of duty, where it doesn’t mess with your head. Where it only makes you feel good. My fingers travel up the back of his neck, coasting through his hair. He leans back against my hand, like he’s savoring the touch.
I slide my thumb down his neck, pushing, kneading. He breathes out hard, evenly. His muscles visibly relax as I rub.
He murmurs, something that maybe sounds like “So good.”
I want to pump a fist, to kiss the sky. I did that. I made him feel better. Made him feel good again.
I dig my thumb and fingers in, rubbing and working out the knots, and he seems to savor every second of the attention. I can’t help it—my eyes drift down to his pants.
To the thick ridge, so visible.
Seems his dick savors the attention too.
I stifle a groan as I stare at the outline of his cock.
I want it, and him.
Want to ride it, want to have it.
I’m tempted, so damn tempted, to crawl across his lap, straddle him, and grind against his hard-on.
And while I’m doing that, I’d love to rope my hands through his hair again and kiss away whatever tension resides in him—the tension that seems to disappear when I touch him like this.
But Jackson’s words from last night echo.
My promise to myself does too.
I let my hand fall, resting briefly against his shoulder before I let go.
His eyes open slowly. He swallows, and I stare at his throat, at his Adam’s apple bobbing, like he’s trying to solve a problem.
The problem of me.
But I can fix it for both of us.
I have to.
“Did you sleep well?” I ask, doing my best to return to the colleague-banter volley.
