Sarge wasn’t sure his reaction would have differed if Jasmine had been into the kiss with Carmine. He’d just wanted the guy off her. Period.
Sarge glanced up in time to see Jasmine watching him over her shoulder, tugging down her skirt as she bypassed the second-floor entrance and headed for the third. Did she sense his inability to avert his gaze when her hips were swaying like a checkered flag at the beginning of a race? That red hem couldn’t be deterred on its mission to slip higher and higher, where it teased the underside of her ass. The fog of jealousy that had descended at the mention of her date’s name was being burned away by an increasing weight between his legs. So much sharper than usual because the source of his hottest fantasies was leading him to her apartment. The place she slept, showered, touched herself.
Ah, Jesus. Don’t think about that.
“So…” Jasmine slipped her fingers beneath the dress’s hem once again, holding it in place at a modest level. “How long are you in town?”
Sarge followed her through the beige metal door onto the building’s third level, watching as she searched for her keys in the clutch purse. “Long enough to forget why we were starting to annoy each other, I’m guessing.” When she laughed over her shoulder, eyes sparkling, he had to take a second to regroup. “Our drummer, Lita, was getting into too much trouble on the road, so our manager put her in a time-out. And I’ve waited long enough to meet Marcy. Christmas seemed like the best time.”
A weight pressed down on his shoulders. “We’re also on the fence about signing with a new label. It would mean more studio time, a quick turnaround on another tour…”
“That’s incredible,” Jasmine breathed, pausing midstep. “Why would you ever turn something like that down?”
It doesn’t matter how far I travel, my head is always here. “No reason. We’ll probably sign.” Sarge threaded his fingers through his hair. “So what’s my niece like?”
“Ohh. You’re going to love her. She’s a miniature River.” Jasmine pushed into the apartment and flipped on a lamp with a pink shade, casting the living room in a rosy glow. “So. Lita, huh?” She turned with crossed arms, waggling her eyebrows at him. “Is she your girlfriend?”
Sarge tried to contain his horror and couldn’t. “She’s like my kid sister.” He set his bag down and circled the apartment, trying not to be obvious about inhaling the sight of everything she touched on a daily basis. “A kid sister who can drink me under the table. And then bury me under her rap sheet.”
He couldn’t see Jasmine’s reaction because she turned and disappeared into the kitchen. For a full ten count, Sarge could only watch the doorway, his old self warning him that being in tight spaces with Jasmine was a bad idea. But he wasn’t the old Sarge anymore. This trip could be his only opportunity to kick this infatuation. Don’t waste it.
Sarge followed Jasmine, coming to an abrupt stop on the threshold when he saw Jasmine heating up a pan. And removing the fixings to make a grilled cheese.
Something unruly danced inside his rib cage, begging to get out and run free. He couldn’t even appreciate the truly gorgeous fucking image of Jasmine at the stove, her waist flaring into hips in need of gripping, her long black hair falling in waves down her back. All he could process was irritation. It might have been unintentional, but with one gesture, she’d sent him back to the misery of his teen years. Being babied by a woman who inspired sweaty, wicked images at inopportune moments of his day. Sending him to the school bathroom to work out the ever-present lust wrought by his older infatuation. It had never gone away, no matter how many times he’d tried to appease himself. Every day had left him feeling raw and exposed—kind of like he felt right now.
He refused to sink any deeper.
He advanced into the kitchen and scooped the cheese singles off the counter, intending to put them back in the fridge. “No need to go to the trouble, Jas. I’m not hungry.”
“Ah, come on.” She peeked up at him from beneath thick eyelashes, a sly smile decorating her lips. The easy comfort she projected was completely at odds with the precise bread-buttering taking place in her hands. Was she nervous around him? The possibility sank like an anchor in his stomach, but he wasn’t given the chance to fix it, because it happened. “You’re always hungry,” she said quietly, before setting down the bread knife, turning to face him…and ruffling his hair.
Sarge’s mind attempted to overrule his body, which swelled to life like the tide during a full moon. What he wanted to do painted itself in vivid detail behind his eyes. Snatch a hand out to circle her wrist and pin it against the small of her back. To overwhelm her. To chastise her for trying to knock his vital years of experience from their perch. He wanted to watch Jasmine’s back arch out of necessity, tilt her tits up, mashing those pointed peaks against his chest, and fuck…that’s when he would start praying that her answering sob of surprise would shake free those mounds from her dress.
He didn’t act on any of that, however, because she’d already been held against her will tonight, and he would dive headfirst into an early grave before he fell into the date from hell’s category. Inaction wasn’t a possibility, though, either. Fuck no. Whether or not he’d anticipated it upon returning to Hook, tonight had been a long time coming, and he wouldn’t let the chance go to waste. With a quick dip forward, Sarge scooped up Jasmine and deposited her on the kitchen counter, adjacent to the stove, coming up between her splayed thighs. When her ass landed on the beige Formica, her red lips parted on a startled gasp, tits bouncing with the impact, right beneath his mouth. Christ.
With a steel will, Sarge reined in the moan of a man finally granted conjugal visits after a decade in prison. It was right there, imprisoned in his throat, all thanks to having Jasmine so close. Feeling her body heat. Listening to her inhale.
“What are you— W-what was that?”
He pressed his knuckled fists into the counter on either side of her hips and leaned in, close enough to see her irises dilate. “I’m making you the grilled cheese this time around. How’s about that?”
An adorable wrinkle formed between her brows. “I already ate.”
“I’m aware.” Dragging himself away was a feat, but the image of her on a date with Carmine induced enough annoyance to make it possible. He could feel her attention following him closely as he picked up where she’d left off with the grilled cheese, slipping two slices of cheddar between the white bread and dropping it onto the well-heated pan. The two minutes it took to cook the sandwich simmered with tension, amplified by their lack of conversation. Not to mention, Jasmine’s drawing attention to her toned thighs by tugging on the hem of her dress, writhing that delicious ass on the counter to keep it pulled down. They met eyes as she performed the sexy maneuver, and he swore her breath hitched, but couldn’t be sure, thanks to the sizzle of the pan.
“I’m really not hungry,” she muttered as he flopped the grilled cheese onto a plate and cut it in half.
Sarge lifted one half to his mouth and blew on the edge, all the while easing back toward her at the counter. When he was inches away, her knees shot back together, but he let his lower abdomen rest against them anyway, wanting—needing—to see how she would react. But she stayed still, a wealth of caution radiating from her tense form. Those deep brown eyes seemed to liquefy as she focused in on his mouth…and that was all she wrote. His hard-on grew more prominent in his jeans, contouring to the curve of his fly. Again, that desperate moan climbed in his throat, the one that would give him away as a man obsessed, but he staved it off. The need to jerk himself off had been this intense only one other time in his life, and it had involved Jasmine in a glittery gold bikini, oiling herself up on a towel in his backyard. He’d been seventeen—Jasmine, twenty-four—and after five minutes of watching the torture from his bedroom window, he’d laid face down in his bed and come, groaning into his pillow, after two frantic pumps.