Bide (The Sun Valley Series Book 2)

“Hang on,” I mutter beneath my breath, shifting all the books I’m lugging so I can rifle for my phone. Professor Jacobs just loves assignments that can’t easily be researched online, hence why I’m hoofing it across campus looking like I just swindled a librarian. “Hang on, hang on, hang on.”

A harrumphed sound of triumph leaves me as my fingers brush against the incessantly ringing device hidden at the bottom of my bag. Wrestling it free, I don’t bother checking the caller ID before pressing it to my ear. “Hello?”

A familiar husky voice greets me. “It’s Nick’s birthday tonight.”

“That’s a weird way to say hello.”

I can practically see Jackson rolling his eyes, can definitely hear him murmur something about me being a brat. “We’re having people over. You’re coming.”

Planting myself and my horde of books on the first bench I see, I huff a soft laugh. “I am?”

“Yup.”

“I think you’re supposed to invite me.”

“Why would I when I know the answer is gonna be yes?”

“I didn’t peg you as the cocky type.”

“Confident,” Jackson corrects, and I hear his smirk through the phone. “You wanna know why I’m confident? Because you like me.”

I groan quietly, instinctively reaching up to swipe at my cheeks as if that will get rid of the pink flush staining them. “Shut up.”

I like you too.

Soppy little dumbass.

I should’ve kicked his ass for ripping my leggings and panties, both of them brand spanking new but instead, I fucking simpered at the man, and I’m definitely blaming the orgasms this time. They weaken a girl.

He weakens a girl. Makes me soft. Makes me comfortable. All kind eyes and unconditional acceptance.

Like with my ADHD. I don’t tell people because I’m pretty scarred from a lifetime of ignorant dipshits saying I just need to try a little harder, calling me attention-seeking. Looking back on it, I can recall so many times when Eva and Bea would make subtle demeaning comments, both behind my back and to my face, and I put up with it because I didn’t entirely disagree.

But Jackson? He didn’t even blink. He didn’t fuss or fret or look at me differently. He didn’t ask any invasive questions. He just quietly, unobtrusively offered his help.

And finger-fucked me into oblivion.

So, yeah. I guess he does have the right to be confident.

“I guess I could make an appearance,” I hum nonchalantly, picking at a loose thread in my sweater, hoping he can’t hear my ridiculous smile. Honestly, there’s no way in hell I’m missing tonight. For one, it’s an opportunity to see Jackson and I jump at any and all of those.

But it’s also an opportunity to get Amelia out of the house and around people that don’t live with her, are kind of related to her, or have enormous crushes on her. It’ll be a hard sell considering what happened last time she was there but I’ll swing it. She needs it; she’s all but wasting away, physically, mentally, socially.

When she isn’t in the apartment moping, she’s at the gym.

With Nick.

Or at the bookstore.

Where Nick works.

Or at Greenies.

Where Nick just so happens to spend an unreasonable amount of his time.

Another excellent reason to go out tonight; I have lofty ambitions of shoving those two in a room together, locking the door, and throwing away the key until they work off some of that suffocating sexual tension.

I feel like popping popcorn and sitting back to watch the show every time they’re in a room together. Dancing around their obvious feelings, her ignoring how he watches her every move, him realizing he’s watching her every move and proceeding to pretend he isn’t. The poor guy has been thirsting over the girl for as long as Jackson has me, and she’s oblivious.

Or at least she pretends to be; I think she knows but she doesn’t want to know. I don’t blame her for being a little hesitant, considering her last relationship. I’d be more surprised if she dove right into something new immediately with no qualms.

Especially considering I think we’re both pretty positive that Nick has the ability to ruin her a whole lot more than Dylan ever did or could.

Jackson calling my name softly drags me out of my thoughts. “Sorry. Zoned out.”

“Everything okay?”

“Just strategizing how I’m gonna drag Amelia out.”

“You better figure it out, sweetheart,” Jackson jokes. “It’s rude to turn up to a party without a present.”

I did it.

I achieved the impossible and got Amelia out of the house.

Unfortunately, my triumph is drowned out by inexplicable, overwhelming nerves. Since the moment I walked through the door, I’ve been on a constant cycle of wiping my clammy hands against my pants, fiddling with my ring, fixing my hair.

“Shake it off, Lu.” I scold myself. It’s just Jackson. Sweet, kind, surprisingly bossy, occasionally dirty Jackson.

Just. Jackson.

Yet he doesn’t feel like Just Jackson when I catch sight of him across the room, finding him already staring at me.

It’s as though the world moves in slow motion and hyper-speed at the same time.

Jackson’s soft expression morphs into something a hell of a lot more intense as he scans me from head to toe achingly slowly, his gaze acting like a caress. Something flickers within it when he reaches my heel-clad feet. Stripper heels, Amelia calls them, and I have a sneaking suspicion Jackson might be thinking the same thing.

I bank that thought for later.

One second he’s smoldering from a distance. The next, he’s looming in front of me, the intensity in his eyes physically knocking me back a step.

I sigh softly when he winds my ponytail around his fingers, using it as leverage to tug me closer so he can kiss the corner of my mouth, my cheek, the spot beneath my ear. His voice is basically a growl, sending a tingle down my spine. “Jesus Christ, Luna.”

I’m not one to beg for compliments, but when they’re coming from Jackson, it’s just too hard to resist. Cocking my head, I smirk and raise a brow expectantly. Go on.

Fingers toy with the thin straps of my top, the material like sandpaper against my suddenly sensitive skin. Snapping one lightly, Jackson drawls, “I was wrong.”

“About?”

“I think you’re the one who’s gonna ruin me.”

I don’t get a chance to reply, or even really process his words, before he’s kissing me. Hard but slow. Full of promise but I’m not really sure what he’s promising. Giving me just enough to sufficiently fluster before pulling away.

“You’re a tease, you know that?” I half-complain, half-snicker as I swipe a thumb across his lips, scrubbing away the pink lipgloss staining them. I resist the urge to tuck his hair behind his ears, because acknowledging the tendrils escaping the sloppy bun at the nape of his neck would mean acknowledging how much I like the fucking bun, and that’s not something I’m ready to do.

He does the same for me, fixing the smudges he caused, letting his palms linger on my cheeks as he sweeps his gaze over the length of me again. “You are so fucking perfect.”

Despite my best efforts not to, I blush something fierce at the compliment I basically begged for yet still sounds so sincere. Briefly, I wonder if I can pass the redness off as a byproduct of the room’s heated temperature.

One look at his satisfied smirk and I know I can’t.

So, I engage evasive maneuvers. “Wanna dance?”

Our dancing doesn’t last long.

The friction between our grinding bodies, the heat of the room, the heavy breaths quickly become too much. I don’t know who drags who upstairs, I think it might’ve been a mutual effort. All I know is a flurry of tangled tongues and wandering hands as we practically fall over each other in our haste to get behind closed doors, and it’s a miracle we make it upstairs without breaking our necks.

When my back hits a door, I blindly reach for the handle, twisting it open just in time to get shoved inside Jackson’s room. He follows close behind, kicking the door shut behind him with a loud slam.

While I shiver with suspense in the middle of his room, he leans against the wall. Such a casual stance but there’s nothing casual about him. He’s tense, brimming with barely restrained energy, practically vibrating with need. I’m no better, so wound up I can barely see straight.

For the millionth time tonight, his eyes rake over me. A long, slow once-over that has my skin tingling wherever his eyes land, has me shifting nervously from one foot to another in anticipation, has me clenching my thighs together in an attempt to ease the ache brewing between them.

Jackson catches the movement, and he groans as he scrapes a hand over his face. The sound goes straight to my lower stomach, tightening the muscles there almost painfully, as does his voice when he commands, all growly and downright fucking dangerous, “Strip.”

Yes fucking sir.

So quickly I almost get a head-rush, I bend at the waist to unstrap my heels with slightly shaky hands. A grunted sound of protest causes me to stop. When I peek at the stiff man looming in front of me, Jackson shakes his head sharply. “Leave them on.”

I drop my head to hide my grin. Suspicions confirmed.

Good thing I wore a skirt.

With a single tug, the ribbon securing it comes undone and the silky fabric pools at my feet. I shed my top at lighting speed, and my chest captures his attention, like I knew it would; at the risk of it being ripped right off my body, I wisely forewent a very expensive bra. When Jackson kisses his teeth, I blink innocently. “Just saving time, baby.”

His grunt is less than convinced.

Hooking my fingers under the waistband of my panties, I slowly drag them just a little bit lower. “Keep going?”

My question receives a jerky nod in response. Bringing my hands to my hips, I coast them up my stomach, brushing lightly over my tits before cupping them gently, obscuring them from his view. “You sure?”

“Luna,” my name on his lips is a groan and a plea and a command, all three wrapped in one word, like he can’t decide between them. His next three words, however, are just one; a command, plain and simple, said with so much dominance and raw fucking power I damn near moan. “Keep fucking going.”

I don’t. I’m playing with fire. I know I am, and I’m going to get so fucking burnt, but I can’t help it. It’s too easy, too fun, too rewarding to rile him up. Which is why I pour fucking gasoline on the flames, letting out a moan as I slip one hand between my legs. “Or what?”

“Or I’ll take them off for you.”

“Is that supposed to be a threat?” Because it’s not. It’s the opposite; it’s the goal. I wore my least favorite—but still cute—pair of panties for this very occasion. I’m game, as long as he doesn’t, like, rip my heels. I’m not sure if you can rip a pair of stilettos but I feel like if anyone can do it, it’s Jackson.

Even from a distance, his dark chuckle caresses my skin. “If I take them off, they stay off all night.”

“I’m not seeing the problem here.”

“If I take them off,” he repeats slowly as he closes the distance between us. Dragging his nose up my neck, across my jaw, along my cheek, he inhales deeply, letting out his breath on another low laugh.“I’ve done all the work. You think you get rewarded for being a brat?” Without letting me respond, he wraps his fingers around my throat, grip deliciously restricting. “Do what I say or you’re gonna spend all night tied to my bed with my fingers and my tongue in that tight fucking pussy.”

“I’m still not-”

“But you won’t come. No matter how much you beg or cry or plead, you won’t come. Because I won’t fucking let you.”

My mind eddies of all coherent thoughts. Well, almost all; where the fuck did this man come from is a pretty prominent continuous chant. As is am I ever going to get over this man’s mouth?

It’s a threat, a very real one, a painful punishment, yet fear is the opposite of what I feel. A snippet of a vision flashes through my mind, one of me spread-eagled on his bed, thrashing wildly, my legs spread wide with him in between them. Taking and taking and taking but never giving.

It shouldn’t sound exciting. It shouldn’t sound pleasurable. It shouldn’t soak my fucking panties. But it does. And he knows it. His lips curl up in a wicked smile. “But you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Any disagreement is futile. He sees right through me. He tilts my head back roughly, allowing him more access as he leaves slow, open-mouthed kisses along my collarbone, over the swell of my breasts, so close to…

A loud yell makes us jolt apart. My hands instinctively move to cover my chest while Jackson’s relinquish their grip on me. Both our gazes fly to the door as a dull thud echoes through the house and more shouting breaks out.

“What was that?” Jackson doesn’t answer my croaked question. Silently frowning, he moves to peer out the window. Whatever he sees has him swearing underneath his breath. Faster than I can process, he scoops my clothes off the floor and tosses them to me. “What’s going on?”

Opening the door just enough for him to slip out, he pins me with a stern look. “Stay here,” he commands in that arguing-with-me-would-be-a-death-wish tone but it’s not the same. It doesn’t have that usual sensual ring to it. It’s stressed. Angry. Maybe a little panicked.

It’s that little bit of panic that stops me from being annoyed when he thunders downstairs, leaving me mostly-naked and dripping wet in the middle of his room.

“What the fuck?” I murmur as I get dressed. In between trying and failing to ignore the incessant throbbing between my thighs and imagining the demise of whoever caused a fight at the most inopportune time, I only briefly contemplate doing as Jackson said and staying here.

Yeah, the whole ordering around thing is strictly reserved for the bedroom.

I’m halfway out the door when the shouting kicks up a decibel. A scream rings out amongst the clamor, and I freeze because that scream, and the desperate shrieks that follow?

They sound a whole lot like Amelia.