The kiss is long and lingering, and with each passing second, my passion rises, my senses firing. My breasts rub against him, the sensation sending curls of pleasure swirling through me.
“It’s morning,” he murmurs as he pulls away. “We need to get to the boat and head to the island.”
“Not just yet. Please,” I say, that one word holding all my fears and insecurities. “Please, at least for a little while, just hold me.”
He searches my face, then silently leads me to bed. He strips off his jeans and shirt, then slides under the covers beside me, tucking me in against him so that my ass is snug against his semi-erect cock.
I want more—hell, I need more. I need his touch to soothe and center me. But as far as I know, Jackson has been up all night and I don’t want to demand when he’s tired. More than that, I want to be able to stand on my own, because I’m terribly afraid that there will come a time when Jackson won’t be beside me to battle away my fears.
So I close my eyes, trying to be strong. Trying to simply enjoy the feel of his arms around me.
Jackson, thank god, has other plans.
Lightly, so that I almost do not even recognize the contact, he begins to stroke my thigh, making me squirm.
A thread of sensual heat curls through me, and I shift, parting my legs slightly so that he has better access. As I’d hoped, he takes full advantage, his hand easing down along the juncture of my thigh and torso, then to my pelvis, and then finding the nub of my clit. I gasp, drawing in a stuttering breath as he makes his fingers into a V and slides along my now-slick labia but avoids the touch that I am desperately craving.
“Jackson,” I murmur. My hips are moving in their own rhythm now, trying to direct his hand, his touch. But Jackson foils me, and the release that my now-primed body seeks is just out of reach.
Frustrated, I press my rear back against his cock, then close my eyes in satisfaction at his low, masculine groan of pleasure. Then his mouth brushes my shoulder, and his low, sultry words are sending ripples through me. “I need to fuck you, baby. Like this. Right now.”
“Yes.”
“Touch yourself,” he demands even as he takes my thigh and pushes it forward. Now we are still spooning, but my legs are scissored as his fingers thrust inside me, making me wild with need. And only when I’m so damn wet that I’m sure the sheets must be damp, does he ease his cock into me and fill me with long, slow strokes that make me moan.
Slowly at first, and then harder, so that with each thrust we scoot a bit up the mattress. But I want it harder, deeper, and instead of teasing my clit, I lift my hand over my head and press against the headboard to provide some resistance as he pounds into me, harder and harder, until he finally explodes inside me, and then falls limp against me, his body draped over mine.
I sigh and stretch with pleasure. I’m close, and I know if I touch myself, I will go over, but I do not want that. Not now, when I have the pleasure of being so close that even the touch of the air is a sensual caress. And so when Jackson reaches lazily over me, then starts to ease his fingers down to play with my clit, I close my hand over his and shake my head, just a little.
“I want to stay here,” I say. “I want to stay here on the edge.”
“Why?” he asks.
How can I answer when I don’t really understand myself? All I know is that I want to stay here for a little while, balanced precariously before I fall.
And so I give him the only answer I know. “Because you’re the one who took me there.”
Less than an hour has passed when I slide out of bed and start to get dressed. It feels like an eternity, though. Like I have slept and healed and come out fresh on the other side, renewed and brave.
That fades, though, when I pull a long-sleeved T-shirt over my head, and see the way that Jackson is looking at me, propped up on the bed on one elbow.
“What’s wrong?”
“I spoke with Amy this morning.”
I concentrate on stepping into my shorts—I’m dressing for the island, not the Tower—then look at him again. “Your attorney?” I ask, as if this is all news to me.
“I’m tired of leaving my little girl in limbo. I’ve asked Amy to get a court date. I want to bring Ronnie home.”
I zip up the shorts, then go to sit on the bed. “Good,” I say. “You’re her dad.”
I see the relief on his face, and know that I’ve said the right thing. “There’s more. Do you remember what we talked about at the airport?”
“Sure.” I’m proud of how normal my voice sounds.
“Did you mean what you said? Because I want to make it official.”
“Official?”
He nods. “If something happens to me, I want guardianship of Ronnie to go to you. I want Amy to amend the guardianship papers. You, not Megan, if something happens to me.”
“I—” I swallow, wanting to kick myself for hesitating for even an instant.
He notices, of course. “Yesterday, when I was being an ass about the paparazzi, what you said about believing I’d killed Reed. About staying with me no matter what.”
His words are choppy, and I take his hand.
“That drove it home for me,” he continues, more smoothly, and the knowledge that I’ve given him strength swells inside me. “How much I want you to be the one protecting her. Sticking with her. But I know it’s selfish of me, too, and if you don’t want that—”
“You were an ass about the paparazzi?” The question, voiced as a tease, slips out of me. I regret it immediately, but I’m latching on to anything but the real issue. Anything but the possibility that I will be raising a child alone.
“I was,” he says. “I was pissed and acting stupid and you were right. I need to avoid them, not taunt them. And when we do encounter them, I need to play Evelyn’s game and be polite and friendly. I hate it, but I’ll do it because I know it increases the odds that I won’t end up behind bars. That I’ll stay here with you. With Ronnie.”
Relief flutters through me. That, at least, is one thing I can stop worrying about.
“I’ll call Amy this morning and tell her not to change anything,” he says gently. “It’s too much to ask. I wasn’t thinking. I wasn’t—”
“No,” I blurt, gripping his hand tighter. “No, I’m sure. Of course I’m sure.”
And I am.
Despite my fears, I am absolutely certain.
Because what other choice do I have?
In Jackson’s world, there is him, there is his daughter, and there is me.
He loves me, I know that he does.
But if he ever has to make a choice, it is Ronnie that he will choose. Because unlike Jeremiah or my parents, Jackson is a good father. And for him, Ronnie’s welfare will always come first.
And as for me?
All I can do is make certain that is never a choice that he will have to make.
All I can do is take a tentative step toward the role of Mommy, and hope that I never have to play that role alone.
But am I taking that step because I love Jackson?
Or am I doing it because I’m afraid of losing him if I don’t?
fifteen
The enticing aroma of yeast and cinnamon wafts through the boat, making my stomach growl. “That smells amazing,” I say, as Jackson opens the oven in the galley-style kitchen and pulls out a tray of cinnamon rolls.
We’d come to the marina before dawn, and had been lucky not to meet many paparazzi hanging around the gate. Presumably they knew Jackson wasn’t on the boat and had gone home to sleep—or to the Tower to camp out.
Now we’re getting close to the island, and making up for skipping breakfast in order to get under way quicker.
Jackson picks up a plastic bag full of gooey white stuff that I assume is a sugary icing for the rolls. I ease up beside him and take it, figuring I ought to contribute at least a little something to our breakfast. He snags the first one I ice, holding it on a paper towel as he nods generally toward the front of the boat. “I’m going to go check our position. I’ll be right back.”