Bide (The Sun Valley Series Book 2)

Oscar Jackson kisses like he talks.

Soft and slow and always leaving me wanting more in the most gloriously frustrating way.

I’ve never been one to feel… breakable. To be treated as such. Delicate is not a word often—or ever—used to describe me and yet, that is exactly how Oscar Jackson treats me. Like I might shatter beneath the gentle thumb sliding along my cheekbone, the fingers cupping my face reverently, with a foreign softness that’s as unnerving as it is exhilarating.

God, a girl could get used to this.

Which is exactly why I need him to stop.

I pride myself on my ability to make a man lose his mind, and never have I needed to pull through more than now. Rising on my toes, I eliminate the concept of distance between us, pressing myself as close as humanly possible. When I bury my hands in his hair, nails scraping his scalp, Jackson groans into my mouth, and just like that, a flip switches.

It’s like he’s suddenly possessed. RIP sweet Jackson, hello… well, not sweet Jackson. Dirty Jackson. Rough Jackson. Kinda Slutty Jackson.

Makes Me Wanna Rip His Clothes Off Jackson.

Teeth spear my bottom lip demandingly, and when I gasp at the contact, Jackson uses the opportunity to slip his tongue into my mouth, tangling with mine, fighting a battle I’m suddenly not sure I want to win. He kisses me desperately, full of want and lust, and I can barely keep up. If it weren’t for the hand resting on the small of my back, the other palming the curve of my neck, I fear I’d fall to the floor, shock and desire sending me there.

That hand shifts, settling high on my throat and exuding just enough pressure to tilt my head for better access yet still holding complete control over me. The possessive touch sends a zing down my spine, pooling in the pit of my stomach, awakening a fierce burn that I’m positive only Jackson can douse.

And I’m confused. I’m so fucking confused, my inner monologue a chant of what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck because where has this come from? Who the fuck is this? It’s been weeks of gentle but obvious flirting and you’re telling me all it took was a little bit of straight-talking to get this out of him?

A wanton moan leaves me when his touch drifts to my ass, yanking the hem of my skirt up and out of the way so he can palm the bare skin underneath hungrily. Like his kiss, his touch is anything but gentle as he kneads the soft flesh, fingers digging in hard enough to leave evidence. Calloused fingers travel upwards and hook around the band of my panties, a yelp escaping me when he snaps the fabric against my skin.

Unfortunately, the noise snaps him out of his lusty haze.

With a deep groan, he pulls away from me, expression twisted as though it physically pains him to pry his lips from mine. Our heavy breaths mingle in the air, chests rising and falling in unison, the heat of his skin bleeding through me as he rests his forehead against mine. I try to lean in again only to be denied by the hand on my neck tightening, restricting my movement and his strained, husky voice.

“Fuck.” Jackson releases me, pushes me away slightly, the back of his head hitting the door behind him with a thud. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”

“The only thing you should be sorry about is stopping.”

If it weren’t so infuriating, Jackson’s distressed hesitancy would be adorable. “You were yelling at me ten minutes ago.”

“You were mad at me ten seconds ago.” I roll my eyes when he starts to object. “Sorry, you were not mad. My bad.”

My quip earns me no punishment, unfortunately. Just a pained look and, “You’ve been drinking.”

“I had one drink.” A single shot of tequila chugged for liquid courage before I skulked after Jackson, scared yet desperate to rectify my royal fuck-up. I never drink heavily at parties like this; too many dark rooms and hammered, handsy guys lurking. And with Dylan in the building, the need for lucidity only increases; beating the shit out of him, if needed, would prove most difficult with vodka coursing through my veins.

Jackson sighs as he brushes my hair away from my face, both of us ignoring my silly costume halo as it clatters to the ground. “I don’t wanna fuck this up.”

“You are.” I deadpan. “Right now. By not kissing me.”

He laughs, grinning in a way that makes me feel… weird. Incites a flurry of goosebumps. Twists my stomach. Makes me want to fucking twirl my hair and giggle.

I blame it on being horny. He’s got me all worked up and now he won’t deliver, that’s it. I’ve been borderline edged and I’m feeling needy. I need release.

And I’m not going to beg him for it. My pride won’t let me.

Pasting on a half-hearted smirk, I step away, rolling my shoulders like that might eliminate the odd feeling clinging to my skin. “Fine,“ I purr in what I hope is an indifferent tone. With a shrug, I gesture for Jackson to get out of my way, and he does, still frowning. “If you won’t fuck me, I’ll go find someone who will.”

I barely manage to open the door an inch before it’s slammed shut with a surprising force.

“Luna,” Jackson rasps, warning tone sending a shiver down my spine and a rush of heat between my thighs. “Don’t.”

Instinctively, I lean back into him, relishing in the certain kind of dark wickedness rolling off him in waves, simultaneously warming my blood and sending chills through me. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t fuck with me.” Rough fingers sweep my hair to one side, exposing skin quickly riddled with goosebumps when he lightly caresses the slope of my neck with his lips. “You’re under my roof, sweetheart. No one else is touching you.”

Well, shit.

If I wasn’t turned on before, I sure as fuck am now.

“Well, then.” Turning slowly, I quirk a brow. “You better do something to keep me here.”

He doesn’t.

He wants to, it’s so obvious in his tight grip on my waist and that clenched jaw and the rushed breaths brushing my skin, but he’s holding himself back. Being so damn careful, so damn honorable.

Admirable, yes.

Necessary, absolutely not.

A slow smirk spreads across my face as I rest my hands on Jackson’s chest, the soft material of his t-shirt such a contrast to the tense muscles beneath. Gently but forcefully, I push and, wearing a slightly dazed expression, he indulges me, allows me to walk him backward until his calves hit his bed and he’s forced to sit down.

Jackson watches, rapt, as I shuck his hands from my hips. “You want consent, Jackson?”

He nods stiffly, gaze following my fingers where they slide off the costume wings strapped to my back. His expression turns pained when I finger the hem of my top, and I gotta give it to him; it’s commendable, how he keeps his eyes on my face instead of letting them dip to the lacy fabric revealed when I tug the thin fabric over my head and toss it aside.

Blood rushing in my ears dulls the sound of me unzipping my skirt, the rustle of satin as I shimmy until it hits the floor, leaving me in just underwear and heels. I wonder if he sees my hands shaking, with equal parts anticipation and apprehension, as I brace them high on his thighs, using him for balance as I bend until we’re eye-level.

“I consent.” Jackson’s breath catches in his throat, both hands moving to cover mine. “Please fuck me.”

I think he might choke a little. He definitely groans, a frustrated noise that matches his grip, either prayers or curses muttered beneath his breath. I reckon there’s an equal chance of either, but I don’t get the chance to ask because suddenly, I’m airborne. Then I’m on my back, a plush quilt soft against my bare skin.

What was a surprised yelp quickly morphs into a moan when Jackson’s lips catch mine again without warning, harsher than they were before. Depraved, really. Like he’s drowning and I’m his only source of oxygen.

Any earlier hesitation dissipates. Jackson wastes no more time, deft fingers sneaking between me and the bed and making quick work of undoing my bra. I squirm beneath him as he slowly, teasingly, slides the straps down my shoulders before discarding it.

I push him away just long enough to return the favor, desperately tugging his t-shirt over his head to reveal a body I’ve been dreaming of for fucking weeks. God, do clothes not do him justice. Much like his face, his torso is all sharp angles and defined lines, and my greedy eyes drink up the lean definition, the light brown skin covering rippling muscles and ridged abs. Wrapping my hands around taut biceps, I pull him back down to me, and we both groan as our naked chests collide, hard muscles meeting smooth skin.

Jackson works his way down my chest, teeth scraping and tongue worshiping. A tortured gasp leaves me as warm, wet lips envelop a pert nipple, my back arching as if to force more of me into his mouth. I’ve always had sensitive nipples but God, with the way his tongue is working, it feels like I could get off from this alone. My hands tangle in his hair, an attempt to ground myself as nimble fingers tweak my other nipple before he squeezes the full mound of flesh roughly. It’s relentless, his attention, and it only takes a pathetic number of minutes until I’m on the verge of begging for more, back arched completely off the bed, nails surely leaving marks on his shoulders.

And then, he stops.

Ignoring my noise of protest, the bastard stops.

He moves until his lips hover over mine again and, looking a little too damn proud of himself, he utters the most infuriating word. “No.”

My whine is loud and unashamed. “Why?”

“Because when I fuck you, sweetheart, it’s not gonna be a one night stand.”

“But those are so much fun.” So meaningless. And meaningless fun is my speciality.

Beautiful brown eyes never leave mine as Jackson shakes his head. “I don’t share, Luna,” he says so softly, such juxtaposition to the fucking filth that follows, “I’m not fucking this pussy until it’s all mine.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

Even as an aroused shiver wracks my body, I find myself gaping at Jackson. “Who the fuck are you?”

Dominance shies away for a moment as red stains the apples of Jackson’s cheeks. When he retreats, kneeling at the foot of the bed, I follow on bent elbows. “No, seriously, what did you do with Jackson?”

“Luna,” he groans my name, and I can’t help but grin.

“Are your thoughts this dirty every time we’re together? Because if they are I would love to—”

My sentence ends in a shriek when Jackson abruptly gets to his feet and yanks me forward, shutting me up pretty effectively by sinking to his knees between my legs. A hand on my stomach keeps me flush against the bed as he, never breaking eye-contact, starts to trail open-mouthed kisses from my knees to my inner thighs.

Any trace of humor dying, I fist the sheets with a death trip, damn near ripping a hole in the fabric when he traces a knuckle over the white lace of my panties. My breath catches, my blood humming with anticipation. He’s so close, so fucking close to where I want him, and when he leans in, hot breath following the path of his finger, I almost lose it.

He pauses.

A boyishly devious grin blooms.

And he asks, no, demands, “Go on a date with me.“

Somehow, I have enough wits about me to scowl. “That’s bribery.”

I have to give him props. Clever tactic. And it’s sure as fuck working.

Gruff laughter tickles my sensitive skin, the sensation only making me hotter and my panties damper. He nudges them aside and runs a finger along the length of my pussy, his touch featherlight as he circles the borderline painfully throbbing bundle of nerves lightly, teasingly, not enough to get me off but just enough to drive me wild.

“Luna.” God, I love the way he says my name. “It’s a yes or no question.“

I don’t respond. I can’t respond. My mind is too foggy, my eyes screwed shut as I grind against his hand in an attempt to find some relief before he inevitably deprives me again. When he does, my eyes fly open. A protest forms and dies on my lips when I find him hovering above me. His expression has changed, the softer side of him returning for a moment. He brushes a thumb over my lower lip, along my jaw, tucks a strand of wayward hair behind my ear. “Let me treat you right.“

His request makes me gulp. It’s so sincere, so simple, yet so hard to wrap my head around. I can’t figure out what I’ve done to deserve him looking at me like I hung the fucking moon. I hate that my hand shakes as I reach up and trace his jawline, hate the vulnerable gaping hole in my chest that makes it hard to get out a single word.

Shoving away the doubts, the nerves, I focus on the warmth of his skin beneath my fingertips, the gentleness in his gaze that I’m not sure how I ever survived a day without, the pit of want in my belly. “Okay.”