Page 77 of Crowe
“I don’t want you to have to make that choice.” I thought of the look on Jackson’s face that day Wyatt had shown up at the campunexpectedly. The pure joy there at seeing his brother and how unfair it was to think he might never see him again.Because of me.
“I know you don’t,” he said. “That’s one of the things I love about you.”
I looked at him.
“You would never ask anyone to give anyone or anything up for you.” He turned my hand over and laced his fingers through mine. “But, baby boy, you aren’t asking. I’m telling you that whatever it takes, it’ll be worth it, as long as I have you.”
I’d just managed to hold myself together through this whole conversation—the plans, the relocation option, even the I love you—with that same practiced resilience I’d spent months building after my kidnapping. It was what had kept me from losing it during the car chase and what kept me sane when I was down in the cabin’s cellar waiting for Jackson to come back for me. But all of that came apart in about four seconds.
Not in a bad way. Like a thread that had been stretched too far until it finally found its breaking point and snapped, releasing all the tension it’d been holding.
I turned and put my arms around him, and he gathered me in, one hand at my back and one at the back of my head. I pressed my face against his shoulder and let myself fall apart. He held me without saying anything because he was Jackson, and he knew that what I needed wasn’t words. I just needed him to hold me.
After a while, I pulled back and looked at him. He looked back. His expression was open in a way I didn’t always get to see from him.
“I love you,” I said again. Because I wanted to say it not in the middle of coming apart but clearly, looking at him, with all of myself present. “I love you, Jackson Crowe.”
Something in his face went quiet and warm. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”
I laughed and shook my head. “That’s the mostyou-thingyou’ve ever said.”
Crowe
He kept looking at me the way he had when he said my name out loud—I love you, Jackson Crowe—like saying it had changed something in the room. Maybe it had.
What I knew was that we’d done enough talking for one afternoon.
I reached for him and pulled him close, one hand at the back of his neck, and kissed him slow and deep until I felt the last of the tension leave his body, and his hands found my shirt and held on. Then I pulled back just enough to look at him.
“Bedroom,” I said.
He didn’t argue.
I sat him on the edge of the bed and stood in front of him and let myself look at him. His eyes were still bright. His hair was undone from my hands. He looked up at me, waiting, trusting me to know what he needed.
“You good?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m good.”
I reached out and started on the buttons of his shirt, slow and deliberate, and he let me, sitting still under my hands. I pushed the shirt off his shoulders and ran my hands over him, his chest, his shoulders, the line of his ribs. He shivered.
“Lie back,” I said.
He did.
I took my time. I’d always taken my time with him, being careful, managing around fragility, because I never wanted to be another thing that caused him trauma, but this afternoon was different. This afternoon I went slow because I wanted to. Because he was mine. I worked his jeans off, tossed them aside, stood over him, and looked at him laid out on the bed. He looked back at me with dark eyes, his chest already rising and falling faster.
“Daddy,” he said.
“I’ve got you, baby boy,” I said. “Relax.”
He exhaled. His hands went loose at his sides.
I came down over him and kissed his throat, his collarbone, the place at his shoulder where he always carried tension. He made a soft sound, and his hands went into my hair. I worked my way down his chest, his stomach, taking my time, being sure to hit each spot I knew he enjoyed because I wanted him to know I remembered. Because he deserved to be cherished each time. He was trembling slightly by the time I came back up to his mouth and kissed him hard.
“Please,” he breathed against my lips.
“Please, what?” I pulled back to look at him.
