Bide (The Sun Valley Series Book 2)

Eardrum-threateningly loud music echoes off the walls of my apartment, my only company since Kate and Amelia left for Thanksgiving with their families.

I hum along to it, letting it calm me even though I feel the complete opposite; nothing elevates my stress levels quite like packing. I’m powering through, though, because packing means getting out of Sun Valley, and God knows I could use that. With everything happening lately, this city and this apartment have felt stifling.

I fixed the monstrous mess I made. Apologized to Amelia and meant it so very much. It’s not okay but I forgive you, she’d said and I’d taken it happily because God, it was more than I deserved.

But repaired friendships aside, I still need to get out of here. I’m actually looking forward to this weekend. Not because I love Thanksgiving or anything, Ma and I don’t even celebrate it. The extent of our grand plans usually includes a mountain of takeout eaten in our pajamas on the sofa, a cheesy romcom playing in the background as my mom grills me for the latest gossip. That’s what I’m excited for; some good ol’ normality.

Though, my excitement is slightly tainted as I wonder how the hell I’m going to avoid Eva and Bea for an entire weekend—call me a princess but I’ve been treated a little too well lately to revert back to dodging thinly veiled insults and silly, childish mean girl bureaucracy. And Owen is a whole other tangled web.

With the blaring music and my full focus on strategizing plans of evasion, I don’t hear my phone ringing. It’s only when the song changes do I hear it, along with knocking. Ignoring the latter—the tenants of this apartment don’t have the best track record with unexpected visitors—I answer my phone. “Hello?”

“Open your door.”

The smile on my face is damn near automatic.

I fly to the door at lightning speed. Within seconds of opening it, Jackson’s inside and all up in my business. “I’ve been knocking for ten minutes.”

“What’re you doing here?”

Large hands settle on my waist. “I’m not gonna see you for four days.”

“And a few extra hours was gonna kill you?”

“Maybe.”

“Drama queen.”

“Stop being a brat and kiss me.”

I roll my eyes but oblige because how can I not? Hands tug me flush against him before circling around, pawing my ass. Toying with the hem of the t-shirt riding up my thighs, Jackson pulls back just enough to glance down at my attire. “Is that mine?”

“Yup,” I reply, not the slightest bit ashamed.

A pleased noise rumbles in his throat as he tugs on the hem again. A palm slaps my bare skin as he gives me a final peck. “Put some pants on and let’s go get some food.”

“I can’t. I have to pack.”

Eyes dart in the direction my thumb jerks, dark brows shooting up when Jackson clocks my overwhelming suitcase. “You know you’re only going for a weekend, right?”

“Shut up.”

His laughter creates a warm feeling in the pit of my belly that only spreads when he grips the back of my neck and pulls me in to kiss my forehead. “Go pack. I’ll cook.”

“You cook?”

Modest as always, Jackson just shrugs and ambles into the kitchen, rooting through the cupboards and fridge like he owns the place.

Apparently, he cooks.

Damn it.

Jackson is singing.

Like belting at the top of his lungs in that deep, husky voice, swaying around the kitchen brandishing a spatula singing.

I think I’m going to die.

Packing was abandoned long ago in favor of watching him dance around, so fucking cute.

And hot. Very hot.

I know I’m checking him out, he knows I’m checking him out, and yet still, when he suddenly looks up from the stove, I drop my gaze. Grabbing the first piece of clothing I can find, I pretend to inspect it, ignoring the low chuckle from the kitchen.

“Luna?”

I aim for nonchalance as I glance up.

Jackson smirks, leaning against the counter with his arms folded. “You hungry?”

Yup.

Very.

I shrug as I clamber to my feet. “I could eat.”

Joining him in the kitchen, I fish out cutlery while he dishes up a portion each of something delicious-smelling—kare raisu, he tells me it’s called—and carries our bowls to the living room. Halfway through cracking open a couple drinks for us, nose crinkled in disgust as I handle the dreaded grapefruit Crush, my phone chimes from the sofa where Jackson chucked it earlier.

“Can you check that?” It’s probably just my mom checking my flight details for the millionth time.

Except the moment I turn around, I know it’s not.

Jaw rigid, Jackson grips my phone way too tightly.

I take a cautious step toward him. “What?”

Brown eyes soften when they meet mine. Without a word, he sets my phone on the table, gesturing to it stiffly. Bracing myself for an unsolicited dick pic, I squint at the screen.

The text I find is arguably worse than a random penis.

Owen: hey sugarplum, see you tomorrow night? Parents are out of town. Need something to be thankful for again 😉

Fuck.

When I automatically go for my ring and come up empty—the little bastard glints at me teasingly from Jackson’s pinky—I cross my arms over my chest awkwardly. “I wouldn’t have replied,” is all I can think to offer.

“I know,” is his soft, genuine reply that confuses me because he doesn’t exactly look thrilled. I sure as hell wouldn’t be.

“You’re not pissed?”

“Not at you.” Sitting down, Jackson digs into his food with a shrug. When I make no effort to join him, a crease forms between his brows. “Should I be?”

No.

It would be so easy to just say no.

I never did like taking the easy way.

“If I thought you were going home to fuck other girls, I’d probably be a little pissed.”

In a split second, something shifts in Jackson. Not in his demeanor; he remains as calm as ever as he sets down his food and leans back, smoothing his hands down his thighs before resting his arms on the back of the sofa. Such a casual stance yet every muscle is tight, every vein pronounced.

It’s his eyes that really change. They harden and gleam with someone wicked. It’s the tense, dominant power rolling off him. It’s his voice as he asks, slowly, calmly, deadly, “Are you going to fuck him?“

Say no, my inner voice begs me. The angel on my shoulder, or maybe my self-preservation skills.

But I can’t help it.

I shrug.

Despite the fact I wouldn’t touch Owen with a ten-foot-pole anymore, I fucking shrug because provoking Jackson is too damn fun. Too damn rewarding. Which is why I push harder, challenging him and that pesky self-control. “A girl has needs.”

Oh, does that work.

In the blink of an eye, Jackson is on his feet and stalking towards me. Predator and prey, he forces me to take a step back, then another and another until my back bumps against the wall. No, a door. My ajar bedroom door. Jackson shoves it open and keeps advancing until my calves hit my bed and I’m forced to sit.

My breath catches in my throat as Jackson towers over me. Goosebumps erupt as his knuckles brush a path down my cheek. “I know what you’re doing, Luna.”

I grasp my bedsheet with a death grip. “What am I doing?”

I don’t get a reply. I get pushed onto my back, the hem of my t-shirt shoved up my thighs before I can blink and for a split second, a crack appears in Jackson’s demeanor. Lips curling, he snaps the waistband of my pale pink panties covered in a Hello Kitty print, a stark contrast to the usual lacy numbers I wear. A joke birthday present from the girls that became my favorite comfy pair.

When Jackson chuckles teasingly, I slap him upside the head. “Shut up.”

“I like them.” He ducks his head, and I inhale sharply when I feel his hot breath through the flimsy fabric. “You wear these for Owen?”

I try to retort but it dissolves into an open-mouthed moan when teeth nip my clit, and already-damp material is only made damper by a teasing tongue. Jackson something else but I don’t catch it, too caught up in the zinging sensations shooting up my spine.

All of a sudden, I’m on my stomach, my confused yelp muffled as my face is buried in my bedsheets. The sound morphs into a moan when lips kiss a path down my bare back. Hands are suddenly everywhere, caressing, stroking, slapping, slipping my panties off. Heavy weight hovers over me, hips press into my ass, breath tickles my neck. “I said what needs, Luna?”

I don’t reply. I can’t reply. I’m too focused on the hard cock digging into me, begging for some attention. And I beg for some of my own, with a low moan and a thrust of my hips.

“You wanna get fucked?” Jackson croons, teeth nipping at my racing pulse point, tough darting out to ease the sting. “You need me to fuck you?”

Like I need oxygen.

When I glance over my shoulder, Jackson is right there, his nose brushing mine, our breaths mingling. “Please.”

Calloused fingers graze my skin, sweeping my hair back from my face. “So pretty when you beg.”

“Please.”

“No.“ He punctuates the single word with a harsh, stinging slap on the ass. “Maybe when you learn how to fucking behave.”

“But-”

The argument I know I shouldn’t make but can’t fucking help is cut off when rough, demanding hands guide me upright, positioning me on my knees, spreading my thighs. “Up.”

I rise up on shaky knees. Without warning, he slides underneath me and tugs me down onto his face, his tongue slipping inside me before I can even fathom what’s happening.

My legs give out almost immediately. Falling forward, I clutch the headboard, holding on tight as he fucks me with his tongue. Two fingers spread me open, baring me completely to him, a third joining his tongue and eddying my mind of all coherent thoughts. “Holy fucking shit.”

The sounds echoing around the room are obscene. Wet, sloppy sounds. Moans and groans. My neighbor probably thinks I’m making porn but I can’t find it in me to care, not when he’s in me.

So many curses fall from my lips, intertwined with praises to Jackson’s name. I find purchase in his hair, tugging hard, and that seems to only spur him on, his tongue and fingers plunging in and out of me just as manically as I’m writhing on his face.

I come quick, so hard I almost pass out. I lose all feeling and control in my legs. I briefly worry I’m crushing Jackson but he seems pretty fucking happy, still lapping away at me like a man on a mission.

I moan, long and pained, as he licks and nips and caresses until I can’t take it anymore. I try to rise, desperate for a break, even for just a second, but he just yanks me down again, arms wrapped around my thighs tightly so I can’t move, fingers digging into my flesh hard enough to bruise, and I swear I can hear his voice in my ear, a ghost of a whisper from the first night we spent together. I didn’t say you could stop.

I think I might be sobbing.

Tears of pleasure, that’s a new one for me.

My whole body shakes, my insides feel like goo, and my brain is nothing but haze.

By the time he finally relents, I can barely hold myself up. I crumple, literally crumple, as weak as a sheet of paper, when he slides out from underneath me. He moves to hover over me and I watch, an odd combination of dazed and abuzz, as he licks his glossy lips and fingers clean.

Those same fingers wrap around my throat. “You still thinking of fucking someone else?”

“Hell fucking no.”

There’s a challenge in his eyes, one to counter mine, and even though I don’t know what the challenge is, I have a feeling I’m already the loser. Urging me upright, he swaps our places, sitting on the edge of the bed while I kneel on the floor. Leaning back on one hand, the other curls around my chin. “Prove it, sweetheart.”

I think I go a bit light-headed with giddiness.

Finally. Fucking finally.

Never in my life have I been excited to give someone a blowjob but here I am, all but foaming at the mouth, pathetically eager as I dive for his waistband. I don’t bother teasing him. I yank down his sweats and boxers in one swoop, his thick, hard cock springing free.

Honestly, I’m a touch worried about how the fuck all of that is going to fit in my mouth but I’ll gladly accept the challenged. I want it inside me, right fucking now.

Fingers comb through my hair, collecting it in a makeshift ponytail. A smug smirk curls the corners of his mouth. “Too much for you, sweetheart?”

Asshole.

I waste no time, as eager to get him in my mouth as he is to be in there. My jaw screams, stretching wide and straining to take him, but I ignore the sting. I take him inch by inch, going slow because I have to, only stopping when he hits the back of my throat.

He’s restraining himself, I can tell. Holding back. Letting me set the pace. It’s nice and all, but it’s not what I want.

All it takes is my eyes flicking up to meet his, my nails scraping his balls lightly, my tongue caressing the underside of his cock, and he lets go. The other side of him takes over. Gritting his teeth, he tightens his grip on my hair to an almost painful degree. His hips piston rapidly, slamming into my mouth brutally, his loud groans filling the room as he hits the back of my throat repeatedly.

My eyes water, I can barely breathe, and it’s all I can do to grip his thighs and just hold the fuck on, but I love it. The brutality of it all, the pleasure rippling through his expression, the dirty praises falling from his lips and going straight to my lower belly. I fucking love every moment. I’m dripping wet, my upper thighs soaked with my arousal, and the pulsing between my legs is almost unbearable. When tears start rolling down my cheeks, Jackson falters, withdrawing slightly but when I glare up at him, pinching his thighs, he continues, even faster, even harder.

When his thrusts get sloppier, his cock twitching and swelling in my mouth, I know he’s close. Gazing up at him through teary eyes, I squeeze his thigh encouragingly. And then he’s coming, spilling down my throat, all but choking me but I swallow dutifully as he groans my name. When he finishes, he pulls out of his mouth with a wet plop, falling back on his elbows with a spent grunt. Head tilted to the ceiling, eyes half-closed, he mutters curses under his breath.

Sitting back on my heels, I struggle to catch my breath, tongue swiping to clean the corners of my mouth. On shaky legs, I crawl onto his lap, smoothing my hands over his thighs. His chest heaves as he tries to recover too, and when I slide my hands up his chest, I feel his heart thumping erratically. Dropping my head to the crook of his neck, I smile. “Too much for you, sweetheart?”

I barely get the comment out before I’m on my back again, his head between my legs, showing me the true definition of too much.

I sleep like a log the entire flight.

My throat is scratchy and raw, my scalp aches, and my thighs feel like I’ve pulled a muscle somewhere, but I swear it’s the best sleep I’ve ever had.

When my mom picked me up at the airport, she took one look at me and laughed. Made a crack about how I need to learn to handle my hangovers better before dragging me to our favorite Nepalese restaurant to fix me up.

I can barely look her in the eye. It’s hard to concentrate on our conversation while I stuff my face with dumplings when mere hours ago I was… well, stuffing my face with Jackson. The mere memory of it, the look in his eyes as he unleashed on me, makes me shiver.

“Cold, hun?”

I can only pray I don’t look as guilty and flushed as I feel. “It’s a bit draughty in here.” A blatant lie, and not even a good one. This place is the epitome of cozy, and the momos I’m devouring are definitely keeping me warm.

A whole minute of intense perusal passes before Ma smiles, wide and bright and knowing. “There’s a boy.”

“What?” Even I can hear how horribly high-pitched my voice comes out. “Why would you think that?”

Ma’s grin grows. “I don’t hear a denial.”

“Ma.”

“What’s his name?”

I drop my head to my hands. “Jesus Christ.”

“Funny, I was under the impression he died.”

“Please stop.”

A napkin snaps in my direction. “Tell me!”

“His name is Jackson, alright?”

“Oscar Jackson?”

I blink, gaping at my mother, partly in horror, partly in confusion. “How the fuck do you know that?”

That bastard napkin comes flying towards me again. “Language!”

Batting her away, I repeat my question. “How the hell do you know who Jackson is?”

“I subscribe to the UCSV Newsroom,” she tells me, way too nonchalant for my liking. “Someone there is very fond of the baseball team.”

Yeah. I know. Made that comment once or twice myself, perhaps a touch snarkier.

“He’s cute, Lu.”

I hum a nondescript reply.

“The long hair though?”

“It grows on you.”

Ma whistles, loud and teasing. “I need to meet this boy. Must be pretty special if he has you blushing like that.”

An accurate observation; I think I’ve blushed more in the past few weeks than I have in my entire life.

“What about you?” I counter, praying she lets me turn the conversation back on her. It’s not that I don’t want to tell her about Jackson. I do, I really do, because I have a feeling she would adore him. Actually, I have a feeling most mothers would weep with joy if Jackson was the boy their child brought home. I just don’t want to talk about him when I can still feel his hands on my ass and his cock down my throat. “Any special man in your life?”

Luckily, my attempt is successful, and my mother’s amused snort tells me all I need to know.

“What about the guy buying all your paintings?”

“The anonymous guy buying all my paintings,” Ma corrects. “I wouldn’t even know he was a he if his assistant didn’t refer to him as ‘sir’ all the time.”

“That’s kind of creepy.”

“He’s paying me,” Ma says, deadpan as he proves I am, in fact, my mother’s daughter. “I don’t care.”