Bide (The Sun Valley Series Book 2)

For all his teasing, all his dirty words, all his all-consuming dominance, Jackson somehow still manages to look surprised. “Okay?”

I stifle a laugh, nipping at the thumb still resting on my lip. “What, you want a different answer?”

Jackson smiles as he grants me a long, sweet kiss.

Or at least it starts out sweet. It doesn’t take long for the depravity to set in again, all frantic touches and twisted tongues. Jackson kisses his way to my ear, teeth pulling at the lobe, voice low and rife with devious promise as he asks, “You want my fingers or my tongue?”

“Both.”

God, does he oblige.

The ripping sound of him tearing my underwear off only pisses me off momentarily, the annoyance drowned out by the sight of him kneeling before me. He looks like some kind of corrupted deity, dangerously handsome. Lips swollen, smudged with my pink lipstick. Skin shiny where my body glitter transferred. Dark eyes frantic like they can’t decide where to settle first.

His biceps flex as he rakes his hands through his messy hair before coasting them up my thighs, kneading roughly. As eagerly as he watched me undress, he watches his hand dip between my legs, both of us sucking in a sharp breath when his thumb finds my clit, circling lightly. “Tell me what you like, sweetheart.”

My hips rock toward him in a silent request for more, and more I get. “That,” I pant on a heavy breath, body clenching when Jackson slips two fingers inside me, the pressure of his thumb changing, intensifying, when it’s replaced by a hot tongue. “I like that.”

Jackson hums against me and God, is that a sensation.

When he curls his fingers and brushes against that tender spot that has my vision temporarily blurring and a white-hot heat shooting up my spine, I reward him with a loud moan. And when he smirks widely, proudly, I know he was waiting for that reaction. Searching for it. Figuring out what makes me feel good.

Fuck, that’s hot.

Clutching at the nape of his neck, I squeeze. “More.”

“Don’t rush me.” Jackson chuckles, keeping the motion of his hand infuriatingly slow and steady, nipping at my inner thigh. “Been thinking about this for a long fucking time, Luna.”

Don’t ask how long.

Do not ask how long.

The question is on the tip of my tongue when it dies.

When there’s suddenly no room for questions, for thoughts, as Jackson tosses my leg over his shoulder, spreading me wide for him. I assist with his mission to get closer, hands in his hair guiding him to a faster pace, and he catches on quick. He groans against me, burying his face in my pussy and fucking feasting.

And God, he does not waste any more time.

It’s too good. Too much yet not enough. Never have I been the object of so much undivided attention, so much affection, and apparently, it’s exactly what I’ve been missing. What I like, what I love.

I come in less than a fucking minute.

Even when I come down, Jackson doesn’t stop, and a realization hits me.

Jackson does not do quick and dirty, not the way I do.

I am painfully, terrifyingly aware that with Jackson, sex isn’t just sex, but I’m too lost in a lusty, dreamlike haze to care.

Jackson reaches up to palm my breast, rolling my nipple between his finger and thumb and sending me over the edge again, even harder than before. My mouth drops open in a silent scream, my eyes roll to the back of my head, my ears fucking ringing.

In my haze, I hear, or more accurately feel, his chuff of laughter. Teeth graze my clit and my scream is vocal this time.

This.

This is where the good sex on campus has been hiding. In this house where, if the rumors are true, the only men who know anything about a woman’s body live. In the body of a guy who I’m beginning to think only pretends to be meek and shy.

A strangled sob rips from my throat when another orgasm builds quickly. It’s too much to take, a throbbing kind of pleasurable pain, but my attempts to push him away are as futile as they are half-hearted. His eyes narrow as he relents for the briefest of seconds. “Again.”

“I can’t.”

“I didn’t say you could stop.” Fingers dig into my thighs, keeping my legs open as he works harder, relentless until I wilt beneath him. “Come on, sweetheart.”

I lose count of how many times I come. Of how long he kneels before me, tormenting me. I’m limp and shivering, lost in an endless sea of pleasure. My body isn’t my own anymore, it’s Jackson’s, and I do not give a shit.

When he finally stops what feels like hours later, my whine is a mixture of relief and disappointment.

Mostly the former, honestly, because Jesus fucking Christ.

“What,” I pant as I prop myself up on trembling elbows, “the fuck was that?”

And there it is. A flicker in his bravado. A tiny glimpse of Can I Help You Dry Those Glasses? Jackson. An interesting shade of burnt tan, he rubs the back of his neck. “Too much?”

Oh, I shouldn’t laugh.

I really, really shouldn’t laugh.

It’s such a shame I never grasped the whole concept of ‘shouldn’t.’

I collapse on my back with a shamefully loud laugh. “Too much,” I snicker, hair in my face as my head shakes from side to side. “Fucking hell, Jackson.”

The poor, confused boy flushes another shade darker. “Did I do something wrong?”

“Absolutely fucking not.” I sit up so fast my head spins a little. “Sorry. I’m not laughing at you. I think I’m in shock.”

“You, uh,” Jackson scratches his nape again, and again, I want to laugh at the whiplash-inducing change in demeanor, “don’t normally come?”

“Not like that.” Shifting to rise on very unsteady knees, I bat his nervous hand away and replace it with mine, fingers finding themselves at home in his hair again. My free hand skates down his chest towards the hard cock begging for my attention. “And I have every intention of returning the favor.”

Jackson catches me by the wrist before I can. “Not tonight. I meant what I said.”

“Seriously? That wasn’t just a line?” My whine morphs into a shriek when I’m pushed on my back again, then a moan when the warm weight of him presses me against the mattress, every noise swallowed by a kiss that effectively lulls me into submission.

When he pulls away, muttering another “not tonight, Luna” even as his cock digs into my stomach, I don’t argue.

I sigh and I huff and I pout like a brat, but I don’t argue.

Rubbing my eyes to try to ward off the sudden wave of sleepiness several orgasms causes a girl, I gently shove Jackson off me and rise on unsteady legs, wobbling my way to the bathroom, much to his quiet amusement. I make quick work of cleaning myself up and when I re-emerge, Jackson’s settling a pair of sweats low on his trim hips.

Grey, of course, because he enjoys making me suffer.

A very apparent lack of boxers.

Jackson smiles at me where I linger in the ensuite doorway, tossing me a shirt that I promptly toss back. “I should go.”

“No, you shouldn’t.”

I sigh. “Jackson.“

Jackson stalks towards me, giving me a real good look at those surprisingly muscly arms as he braces a hand on either side of the door, caging me in. “Stay.”

“I don’t think I should.”

He leans down, nose nudging mine, lips brushing mine in a soft, slow, oh-so-tempting kiss. “Stay,” he repeats, “I’m not playing the hot or cold game, Luna. Either you want to be here, or you don’t. And I think that you do.“

I do. For the first time in my life, I want to stay.

I just don’t know if I’m capable of it.

Expression soft, Jackson dips his head. He kisses along my jaw, down my neck, following the curve of my collarbones and back up again to end at the corner of my mouth. “Let’s go to sleep.”

In hindsight, I didn’t put up all that much of a fight. He didn’t give me time either. He wrapped my hand in his and with a single tug, I followed him back to bed. He handed me his t-shirt and I took it, slipped it on, tried so fucking hard not to sigh happily at the familiar scent. He pulled back the covers and I climbed in.

I let him tug me close, wrap me in his arms.

I let myself fall asleep in his warm embrace.

I can’t help it.

When I wake up the next morning in a bed that’s not mine or Amelia’s or Kate’s, or even some random’s, I momentarily panic.

I actually fell asleep. Like deep sleep. Judging by the amount of light flooding the room and illuminating the various sketches and drawings littering the walls, I slept right through the morning until midday.

There’s a hard chest warming my back, an arm locked around my waist, a face buried in my neck. A familiar fresh scent washes over me, and I have to force myself not to press my nose to the muscled arm my neck rests on, inhale deeply, and fill my lungs with a big gulp of that smell. God, he’s like one of those air fresheners you hang in your car.

But what really makes me panic, wanting to sniff a man I barely know?

For all my lamenting and complaining and avoiding sleepovers over the years, this doesn’t feel half bad.

I’m lying here, unsure where I end and he begins, listening to his soft, sleepy breaths and I’m considering letting myself be lulled back to sleep instead of hightailing it out of here.

Shit.

As sneakily as I can, I try to extract myself from the tangle of limbs.

I barely manage to move an inch before the arm around me tightens and a gravelly voice murmurs in my ear, “Where do you think you’re going?“

My escape efforts screech to a halt. I stiffen, and I can’t tell if it’s because I’ve been caught trying to flee or because of the hot breath hovering over the sensitive spot on the crook of my neck. A memory from last night of his teeth grazing that same spot, him biting down and sucking hard enough to leave a mark floats to the surface. I mentally slap it away. I’m already naked and crushed in his arms; I don’t need to be all hot and bothered too. “Nowhere?”

Jackson hums sleepily as he nuzzles my neck, evoking an involuntary sigh. The hand splayed on my belly coasts upwards, thumbs brushing the underside of my boobs in a tender move. “Go back to sleep, sweetheart.”

I wait for the usual feeling of disgust that pet names evoke in me to rear its head. Just like last night when he whipped out that word, it doesn’t. Instead, my heart does a weird little pitter-patter thing in my chest, insides nothing short of gooey.

I am a weak woman.

So very weak.

One night of orgasms and my entire ethos shatters.

I attempt a weak protest but my resolve is putty in his hands. Big, strong hands that he uses to flip me over and yank me even closer so my face is smashed against his chest, the content grumbling sound he makes vibrating under my cheek. All thoughts of escape eddy from my head as he strokes the length of my spine lightly, soothingly, until I’m damn near purring like a cat.

Sending up a silent ‘fuck it’ and going against pretty much every instinct I have, I give in. I fucking snuggle the man that is all lean muscles yet still soft and cuddly. His heart thrumming steadily soothes me, and I don’t know if it’s that or his husky morning voice or the warmth spreading from him to me or a combination of all three but slowly, my panic ebbs.

Hard to freak when you’re this damn comfortable.

Before sleep can claim me again, I reel back slightly, tilting my chin so I can look at the man beneath me. I didn’t do nearly enough looking—or touching—last night. I was too caught up in all the looking and touching he was doing. So, I’ll get my fill now while he’s dozing and docile before whatever alternate ego I met last night comes out to play again.

Closed eyelids hid those intensively rich brown irises. A few wild wisps of messy hair frame his face, and I can’t stop myself from reaching up and tucking a silky strand behind his ear. At the contact, his eyes flutter open lazily, lips curling upwards in a soft smile that has my heart doing that silly thing again.

I don’t let his gaze deter me. Slowly, I trace the slopes of his cheekbones, the dip in his chin, the crinkles beside his eyes. When my pinky brushes the corner of his mouth, his lips part to nip at me playfully, the corner of his eyes crinkling and his cheeks dimpling.

I can’t quite decipher his expression. Content, for sure. A little drowsy. But there’s something almost confused about it. Disbelieving, maybe. It twists and becomes something else when I continue my gentle exploration lower.

A low, throaty sound rumbles in Jackson’s chest as my hands brush against his lower stomach, nails scraping along the ridges and grooves of his abs lightly. He tenses beneath my touch, a hiss of air escaping clenched teeth. I don’t try to hide my smirk—God knows he was plenty smug last night, I think it’s my turn—and it widens when my hand trails lower and lower until I find him half-hard and straining against his sweats.

“Luna,” he murmurs my name, half a groan, half a warning. “What’re you doing?”

“What we didn’t do last night.“

Instead of, you know, ravishing me or something equally debaucherous, Jackson laughs.

He fucking laughs.

A big, hearty, booming sound that echoes off the walls and punches me in the gut. Rolling me off him, Jackson gets out of bed. “Nope.”

Bitch.

“This is cruel,” I whine, slapping my hands against the mattress like a child because I get stroppy when I’m horny.

Jackson bends, a palm smoothing my hair back, lips grazing my forehead. “You’ll live.”

“You might not,” I grumble as I rise and follow him into the bathroom, definitely not eyeing the glorious outline of a perfect, sweatpants-clad ass.

The stars in my eyes dissipate real fucking quick when my gaze raises to the mirror and I catch sight of my reflection. Fucking hell, what is it with me and looking like a wreck around this man? Remnants of last night’s makeup line my eyes, glitter still decorates my skin in haphazard clumps, and my chest and hips? Covered in tiny little bruises that I notice, with no small sense of satisfaction, Jackson seems particularly fixated on, the gleam in his eyes nothing short of predatory.

When he realizes he’s been caught, Jackson drops his gaze, clearing his throat and muttering something beneath his breath about spare toothbrushes under the sink.

I don’t dwell on why exactly he has a horde of dental care. And I definitely don’t dwell on why the most obvious potential reason irritates me. I just take the toothbrush, grateful for its existence, and snag a couple of hair ties too.

“You wanna shower?”

Yes. Desperately. But I’ve already stayed a hell of a lot longer than I intended, than I should’ve. It’s not in my nature to linger yet here I am. And when Jackson takes the shake of my head for what it is–a bare-faced lie–and leads me towards the shower, I let him, blaming the lure of hot water.

The lure of a gorgeous, naked man is inconsequential, obviously.

So insignificant, actually, that my hands absolutely do not wander freely around that deliciously sculpted torso, tracing collarbones and hipbones and a drool-worthy defined abdomen until Jackson groans.

“I’m trying really fucking hard to be a gentleman.“

“What if I don’t want you to be a gentleman?“

A momentary dark flare in his eyes is all I get before he composes himself. Big hands smooth along my shoulders, comb through the hair down my back, settle low on my waist. “We’ve been over this, Luna.”

“But I don’t get why.” It’s just sex. Hot, sweaty, no doubt toe-curling sex. It doesn’t have to be… I don’t know, whatever he’s trying to make it. Special or whatever.

“Because I like you.”

“You barely know me.”

Jackson smirks as he twists my hair around his fist and tugs. “I’ve held your hair back while you vomited. Doesn’t that count for something?”

A groan of pure embarrassment leaves. Cringing, I hide my face in my hands. I’m not one to indulge shame but that was a low moment. It’s a miracle he stills looks at me the way he does when he’s seen me doubled over a toilet, spilling my guts.

Jackson pries my fingers away from my face, pressing his lips to my palm, his laughter sprouting goosebumps across my skin. When I peek at him through narrowed eyes, he’s grinning like a Cheshire cat. “So you do remember that.”

“I neither confirm nor deny.”

My surprised shriek echoes off the tiled walls when a hand comes down hard on my ass in a stinging strike. “Go get dressed.”

With a harrumph, I step out of the shower and wrap myself in a towel, playfully scowling at him over my shoulder. “You’re kicking me out?“ Oh, how the tables have turned.

“Not fucking likely.” Jackson scoffs like the mere idea is completely ridiculous, biceps flexing and making my mouth water as he runs his hands through his hair. “Just didn’t think you’d be keen on a cold shower.”

Although probably not his intention, Jackson’s joke does nothing but draw my attention to the impressive length between his legs.

Yeah, I can definitely work with that.

Jackson groans as my hungry eyes take him in, and I’m half convinced I could make him come from eye contact alone.

An idea springs to my mind.

“I could help.” When Jackson pins me with a pleading yet stern look, I roll my eyes. “Not like that.”

In one swift movement, the towel covering me drops to the floor, Jackson’s gaze dropping too, cock pulsing as he eyes my bare chest.

A boob man, for sure.

As slowly as he touches me, I coast a hand up my stomach towards my tits, letting out a little throaty moan when I palm their heavy weight.

“What are you doing?“ Jackson’s voice drops a couple levels, his gaze dark and menacing.

“Helping,” I say on a gasp. “You were going to think about me, weren’t you? While you fucked your hand?”

Another groan rips from his chest.

“Is this not better than your imagination?”

“Fuck, Luna.” His eyes stay trained on me as his shaky hand fists his cock and starts stroking slowly. “Sit on the counter.” I do what he says without even a moment’s hesitation, hopping up on the counter behind me, tensing as the cool surface meets my flushed skin. “Spread your legs.”

Again, I do what he says within seconds of him saying it, unable to stop my wriggle of excitement. Shivers of anticipation wrack my body as he zones in on the wet spot between my legs. His throat bobs as he swallows, his eyes ablaze with so much unbridled lust and want, it makes me a little dizzy.

It also evokes a weird feeling of respect towards him because, my God, this guy has restraint.

He steadies himself with one hand braced against the wall, tenses arms ripping with veins, his legs trembling under the effort of keeping himself upright as he pumps himself slowly. Erotic is the only word I can think of to describe the sight before me. Hot as fuck, too. The fact that I can do this to him without even touching him… talk about an ego boost.

“Touch yourself, Luna.”

He doesn’t need to tell me twice. My fingers work greedily, two of them filling my needy pussy while the heel of my hand grinds against my clit, imagining Jackson touching me. Imagining me touching him, bringing him pleasure. It’s not long before I’m on the edge, my words strained and whimpered, “I’m close.”

“Wait,” Jackson commands with a growl, pace quickening. His thumb swipes over the head of his cock, collecting the dripping wetness leaking out and making himself shudder, and I groan at the sight. “Fucking wait for me, Luna.”

I cry out as my stomach clenches, the act of holding off my orgasm almost painful when I’m so close. I have no idea how long passes, hanging on the brink, before I hear a groaned, gravelly order. “Come.”

The bathroom fills with our combined groans of pleasure as we come together. I watch him through hooded eyes, his movement jerky and frantic as he spills into his hand for what seems like forever, his eyes never leave me.

Chest heaving with panted breaths, I slump against the wall at my back, utterly sated as I let my tired eyes flutter shut.

Jesus.

The shower shuts off and footsteps approach, my eyes barely able to open halfway when hands land on my thighs, crawling upwards up they cup my cheeks.

Lips touch mine, the unhinged way he kisses me a stark contrast to the gentle way he cradles my face. His breath is warm and ragged against my skin as he buries his head in my neck, his groan just as rough. “Fuck me.”

A lazy smile contorts my lips as I lace my hands around his neck. “Would if I could.”