Slammed Page 4

  Too fucking many.

  With a heavy exhale, I push off the door and step back out into the rain. I barely take my first step before I hear the door unlock and pull open. My heart stills in my chest as I turn around to look at her. She’s warm, dressed in pink, loose and undoubtedly comfortable bed pants and a tight, white sweatshirt. She blinks at me, her arms folded tightly over her chest.

  “Jackson?”

  As my name rolls out of her confused mouth, I can’t help the small smile that pulls at the corner of my lips—or the pleasurable twist in my stomach. For her own good, she should have left the door shut.

  Selena

  I take him in, limb by soaking limb. My breath is tight in my chest as the heavy rainwater pours over his head, giving his hair no other option than to stick to his forehead. The water rolls down his neck, over his shoulders and past his slim hips. He lowers the t-shirt from his forehead and immediately, I see the thin, dark streak of blood run from his eyebrow.

  “Holy shit,” I gasp, stepping out into the rain. “What happened?”

  The water is cold—painfully cold—and I jump as a flash of lightning in the distance warns us to get out of the weather, followed by a low grumble of thunder much too far away to cause panic. I hate storms—I always have. It’s one of the reasons I’m still up this late. The other is him. It’s always him.

  Right now, the weather doesn’t matter to me. The sight of his blood, however small, chills me to the bone, and the water that falls from the clouds feels warm in comparison.

  Jackson points to his eyebrow. “This?” He shrugs it off. “It’s nothing.”

  It’s not nothing. Anyone with eyes can see his cut, although small, needs medical attention. How’d he even get a cut in that particular place? Unless he was—oh. I still and subconsciously press the tips of my fingers against my lips. “Did you get in a fight?”

  “I may have entered a fight…” He steps forward rather impatiently. “Stop looking at me like that. It’s no big deal.”

  But it is a big deal. I know Jackson. Or, I know him as well as he lets me, anyway. He doesn’t like to fight. Fighting sends him into panic mode. It reminds him of things he doesn’t want to think about. I assume it has something to do with the woman he used to date. It always does. I think about the words he chose…entered…he ‘entered’ a fight.

  “Are you drunk?” I ask, taking a cautious step back.

  In Vegas, Jackson visited a particular fighting club. He could never enter a fight unless he was drunk out of his mind. Of course, that always resulted in a loss for him…a loss he didn’t take well and blamed me for. He’s never hurt me, not without permission, but his words can sure pack a punch.

  He shakes his head. “Haven’t touched a drop.”

  Inevitable silence falls. What now? He’s come for a reason…a reason I’m not sure I can follow through with. A reason I’m also not sure I want to stop. I don’t want to let him into my house, but I can’t, in good conscious, let him leave here with a cut on his eyebrow. Lucky for him, I know a thing or two about cuts.

  I turn around. “Come on, I’ll fix you up.”

  I don’t look over my shoulder to see if he’s following. I know he is. He’s not here to lean against my door only to leave again tonight. I smirk. He doesn’t know I know he comes to my house late at night for no reason at all. He doesn’t knock. He doesn’t make a sound, and eventually, he leaves again, but in the small eternity he lingers outside my door, I feel more wanted than I ever have in my entire life. And it’s a fucking sad realization.

  A shudder threatens my spine as I enter the house and hear the heavy front door being slammed shut behind me. Once he kicks off his shoes, it’s quiet inside—and dark. The only sound is the muffled rain colliding with the house.

  I clear my throat. “You’ll have to come up to my bedroom, but wait here. I’ll get you a towel first.”

  The last thing I want is water dripping all over the carpet. He stops on the white tiles and I continue on to the laundry. Taking my time, I open the cupboard and stare at the myriad of white towels. I shut my eyes and take a few deep breaths. Put his clothes in the dryer, fix his eye, and then kick him out. Simple. I nod my head confidently, open my eyes, and grab a towel. Put his clothes in the dryer, fix his eye, and then kick him out. Nothing less, nothing more.

  Jackson wipes his shirt over his face one last time as I enter the main hall before tossing it to the floor. It lands with a heavy ‘squelch’ by his feet. Unfolding the towel, I hold it out in front of him. His stare flicks to my face and, for some reason, he doesn’t take it. I watch him, curiously, before he moves his hands towards the button on his jeans. With a pop, it opens and he pushes the wet denim down his legs. I feel heat creep into my cheeks and I pray it’s dark enough in here to hide them from him. When he’s naked and all of his beautiful tattooed body is on show, he takes the towel from my hands and wraps it low on his hips. I try not to stare. I try not to let my gaze follow all of the perfect raises and depressions of his stomach, but I fail miserably. Jackson is perfect from head to fucking toe.

  “Your turn,” he says and a flash of lightning brightens his intense features for the briefest second. He reaches forward until his finger hooks around the band of my pants. My heart pulses erratically, pumping blood to my brain a lot quicker than it’s used to, and for a moment, I feel dizzy. Jackson tugs me closer and I dig my heels in right before my body crashes into his. “We can share the towel.”

  I open my mouth then close it as a boom of thunder rocks me back to my senses. Jackson and a dark thunderstorm…how quaint. I reach for his hand and unhook him from my pants.

  “I have fresh clothes in the laundry. I’ll change then meet you in my room.”

  A dark, amused twitch pulls at the corner of his lips and it makes every part of me throb. With every pulse, I can feel myself weakening. In some dark corner of my brain, a voice is telling me to tear my clothes off and do it already, but my heart is begging me not to put it through Jackson’s emotional blender again. I don’t think it can take another spin.

  I hold my breath as he pushes past me. When he’s gone, I’m able to breathe again. I pick up scrambled thoughts, pack them neatly, and file them away. If only my brain had a lock Jackson couldn’t pick so easily.

  In the laundry, I stuff Jackson’s clothes in the dryer and peel myself from my wet clothes. After tossing them in and hitting the button, I slide into the only pajamas I have down here which, coinci-fucking-dently, is a sleek, black babydoll. Thankfully, it isn’t transparent, but still, easy access is something I want to avoid. Unfortunately, I’m low on options. It’s the babydoll or a tight, royal blue cocktail dress I wore out to Lux’s lounge bar last week. With a defeated sigh, I slip into the babydoll and throw on a white sweater so my cleavage is hidden. If I can limit the sexual thoughts in Jackson’s head, the better chance I have of getting him out of here unprovoked and unsatisfied. I quickly run a towel through my hair and move as swiftly as I can to my bedroom. I’d hate for him to get blood on any of my whites.

  I ignore Jackson sitting on the long white bench in front of my one of a kind vanity dresser as I enter the room. Despite his lingering stare, I make it to the bathroom without a reaction to my bare legs, which has to be some kind of record for him. Most men are poster boys for either boobs or asses, but Jackson prefers legs. I’ve never been a girl with a fat ass or a killer rack, but my legs are nice, so it’s a win for me—or not, in this case.

  I bend low and retrieve the first aid kit from under the sink. As I turn, I take a deep breath, knowing the next step after finding the first aid kit will put me right in his personal space… and I never fare well in his personal space.

  I exhale and emerge from the bathroom. I cross the room and close the distance between us, unable to ignore his alluring green eyes that heat my skin.

  He quirks an eyebrow. “You’ve got something that’ll help me in that little box of yours?”

  I shrug, placing the tin con
tainer on the desk and opening the lid. I try not to stand too close, but either way, I’m between his legs with no other choice. “If not, I’ll drive you to the ER.”

  “I’m not going to the emergency room.” He pinches the fabric of my babydoll and rubs it between his fingers. “So you’re going to have to do your best.”

  I roll my eyes. It’s nice to know he has a phobia of hospitals as well as relationships. I focus on the contents inside my first aid tin. I have alcohol wipes, butterfly stitches, cotton buds, band-aids and tweezers. Granted, it’s not the most glamorous first aid kit, but it does the job whenever I bust myself up after a night out. His cut is a hell of a lot more gnarly than anything I’ve ever suffered though, so I don’t know how I’m going to fix it.

  I slip into a pair of latex gloves before reaching for the alcohol wipes and tearing open the tough, foil wrapper. Cleaning sounds like a good place to start. I turn to Jackson, hesitating briefly as my stare settles on his cut. Then, I become hyper-aware of his warm breath blowing against me—I feel it even through my sweater—and if I lean any closer, I’m sure my breasts will brush against his face.

  “How’d it happen?” I ask, dabbing the soaked sheet against his wound and making him wince. I smile a little, not bothering to offer an apology.

  He clears his throat. “His name was Crusher.”

  I snort. “Really?”

  “Yeah. He was a big guy, but slow. He knocked me before I realized what was happening.”

  He grits his teeth, making an uncomfortable hiss as I continue to cleanse the wound. I try not to enjoy it as I wipe up old, dry blood and collect the new, but I can’t help the twitch in my lips.

  “Did you win?”

  He nods. “Of course I won.”

  I dump the blood-soaked wipe on my white dresser, cringing when a drop rolls off a sharp edge and lands on the lacquered wood. “Was it worth it?”

  “If I end up in the emergency room, no.”

  I feel his fingers tug ever so slightly on the hem of my babydoll and I clench my teeth, fighting a shudder as the tip of his index finger brushes softly along my thigh.

  “But,” he continues, “if I stay here with you, winning was worth every crushing strike.”

  If I stay here with you. I keep my eyes downcast, avoiding his. “You can’t stay here, Jackson.”

  I reach for a butterfly stitch, knowing there’s a good chance they won’t work. I don’t think they’re strong enough to hold a brow together. I don’t even think you’re supposed to put them in hairy places.

  When I look at him, his eyes are on my face, studying me curiously. I reach out for his face, trying desperately to convince myself his cut isn’t vomit worthy. He snatches my wrists in his hands and I gasp. “Jacks—”

  “Tell me you don’t want me here,” he demands, his voice low and rough.

  I look him dead in the eyes and it makes the lump in my throat thicker. “You can’t stay here.”

  “So you’ve said already.” He pulls me into his lap and my breath hitches embarrassingly loud. “But that’s not what I asked. Tell me you don’t want me here and I’ll go.”

  “I—” My words stop. The words I was going to say but didn’t mean are trapped in my throat. Underneath me, I feel Jackson’s entire body tense and hold. I survey his face. Maybe tonight will be different. Maybe tonight he wants to try. My heart inflates, and luckily, I have enough ribs to keep it inside my body. My brain knows better than to get its hopes up, but my heart is still so foolishly naïve. A girl’s heart always is.

  “It’s starting to bleed again,” I say, and with a genuine curve in his lips, he releases me. I push myself to my feet and reach out for his brow. At the corner of the cut, I press the flesh together and work on the butterfly stitch. It doesn’t take long to finish and holds together quite nicely with two strips. I cover it in a cream that should stop the blood from seeping through and tape it down quickly before wiping his face over and removing all evidence of his bleeding.

  “If it doesn’t stay shut and starts bleeding more, you’ll have to go to the ER. I don’t want it to get infected.”

  He pushes off of my bench with a roll of his eyes. “All right.”

  As he saunters over to my bed, I dispose of my gloves and put all of my trash into the small bin on my vanity table. When I turn around, Jackson is sitting at the bottom of the mattress. The towel opens against his thigh, exposing his spider web tattoo. I’ve always admired that one, though he doesn’t talk about it. The web is filled with dead spiders, all wrapped up and dry…except the two in the middle. One is obviously weaker, but the other is magnificent. It’s beautiful and strong with vibrant red patterns over her abdomen. I say her because it’s clearly a Black Widow spider. She’s isn’t devouring this male like the others. She’s toying with it, draining it slowly—painfully. It really is a striking tattoo. I only wish I knew what it’s about. I bet there’s a hell of a story behind it.

  “Take off the sweater and come here.” Jackson’s voice breaks my stream of consciousness, sending a torrent of tingles through my body.

  I’ve gone a few days without him. I don’t want to start over now. All of this, my stupid isolation, would be for nothing if I cave now. Drug addicts in rehab have it easy. No one dangles their next fix in front of their face, tormenting them with thoughts of its taste.

  “You should take the couch. I’ll have the bed,” I say, proud of the finality in my voice.

  Jackson smiles, amusement lighting his features. “I should take the couch?”

  I nod. Impatiently, he pushes off the bed and ambles over to me. I swallow hard with every slow step he takes until he’s close enough to touch.

  “I have a better idea.”

  I try to step away from him, but he takes a hold of my hips and pulls me against his body. Pure, white-hot lust tears through my system and crashes into every organ. Our bodies are close and I feel his heat surround me—locking me in. I stare into his dark eyes, completely enchanted. His heavy hands trace the contour of my body, up and down until I turn soft in his grasp.

  “How about I take you.”

  My lips separate as I expel a subtle breath of air and he moves his face closer, until his lips brush mine.

  “On the couch—on the bed. Wherever you want.”

  I shiver as his tongue, warm and wet, grazes my lower lip. Quickly my mind becomes hazy with arousal, but even so, there’s a small nag at the back of my head, telling me to run. It takes all of my strength to listen to it. For the first time in my life, I decide not to throw my dignity under the bus for a hot guy. I press my hands to his chest, but the strength to push him away doesn’t show.

  “No,” is all I manage.

  But he doesn’t listen. He has a direct line to my heart. He knows how I truly feel and what I truly want without asking. I think I’ve said it before, I’m superman and he’s fucking kryptonite.

  “I think I liked you better when you were a drunk,” he confesses with a tight squeeze on my hips.

  His statement is funny, considering he’s the reason I don’t drink as much anymore. I can’t help but arc up. Jackson knows just how to arouse my snarky side.

  “You mean, when I didn’t have a backbone?”

  Of course he longs for the days I’d do anything for him—anywhere he wanted. He grinds his hips into me and the temperature of the room kicks up a few degrees. Noticing my flustered face, Jackson smirks against my lips, stirring something sinister in my belly.

  “Something like that.”

  I glare at him, abhorring the way he makes me feel—useless and wanted all at once. He makes my chest ache, forcing me to swallow the love I so heavily feel for him.

  “Yeah, well, I liked you better when you were just a guy on Seth’s team and I didn’t even know your name.”

  One of his hands shoots to the back of my head and his fingers tighten in my hair. My scalp burns as he tugs my head back to look me dead in the eyes. Even with my best heels, he’s still a foot taller
than me. “You really mean that?”

  My throat constricts at the subtle sound of hurt in his tone. Don’t say it! My heart fights with my voice box, begging me not to admit it, but the thing is…I do mean it. I regret ever getting involved with Jackson Quinn. “Yes.”

  I wince as he squeezes my hair in his hands before crushing his dry lips to mine. Effortlessly, my body moves against his. It always does. It’s desperate for any kind of affection from him, even though it knows exactly how this is going to go. He’s going to bend me. Break me, fuck me…until I take it back and tell him I love him all over again.

  Then he’s done. He’s gone and I’m stuck at square one with a hole in my heart bigger than before. I clench my hands into fists and push against him, making him smile.

  He groans into my mouth before biting down on my bottom lip. “Do you hate me, Selena? It sounds like you hate me.”

  I hiss and pull away. He chuckles deep and dark as I grip his face before sliding my fingers through his hair. His short, damp strands glide over my skin and slip between my fingertips.

  “Yes, I fucking hate you.” My voice is quiet, husky and thick with arousal, but he hears my sincerity.

  He hears it and he loves it. You see, Jackson doesn’t thrive on love like I do. He doesn’t need it, but he needs hate. Aggression, hate, and bitterness is what spurs him on. There’s a cold, black cage of anger around Jackson Quinn’s heart, and I can’t find the fucking key to remove it. Whoever came before me really did a number on him.