Headfirst Falling

by Melissa Guinn

  “I do?”

  “Yes, happier even than the last time we met. What’s changed?”

  I flush on cue. I have to tell her sometime, and now is as good as any. “I’ve sort of been dating Jackson.”

  She arches a brow. “Sort of dating?”

  “More like dating dating,” I clarify.

  A humongous grin spreads across her face, and she stares at me like she’s astonished. Eventually she shakes her head and laughs. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re a girl in love.”

  “If I didn’t know any better, I would say I’m a girl in love.” I surprise myself, because as soon as I say the words I realize I mean it. I just admitted my feelings for Jackson out loud and to someone else for the first time. I love him...and I knew it all along.

  * * *

  Falling in love. Weird. It doesn’t seem to fit, like falling shouldn’t be used in conjunction with love. We don’t fall gracefully. In fact, there’s nothing graceful about it. We crash into things, hit them hard, bounce around, give ourselves cuts, bruises, or break bones... And it’s never planned. It takes you by complete surprise.

  You lose control.

  * * *

  Taylor dressed me for my date. She fixed my hair and makeup and packed my panda ring as well, so I’m feeling confident as I drive to Jackson’s. She chose a soft pink dress with a flirty hemline. My matching platform sandals ride in the passenger seat next to me. It would be a death wish to attempt driving in them. My wrists are decorated with bracelets to match, and in my ears I wear my favorite Tiffany twist bow earrings. Taylor’s fashioned my hair into a knotted ponytail at the nape of my neck with just the right amount of mess. I swear she’s in the wrong line of work.

  I pull into the parking garage at Jackson’s building and put the car in Park. Then I fasten my heels and step out, grabbing the fancy bottle of wine Devin sent along with me. I send Jackson a text that I’m on my way up and climb into the elevator.

  I punch his code into the keypad...123, then 456...very original.

  I find Jackson in the kitchen, taking something out of the oven.

  I set the bottle of wine on the kitchen island and sniff the air. “It smells great in here. I had no idea you could cook so well.”

  He grins. “I’m a man of many talents.” He’s wearing gray slacks and a white button-up shirt, top two buttons tugged open. He sets the dish on the counter and drops the rag in his hand as he crosses the kitchen to stand in front of me. He takes me by surprise with a kiss, and I breathe him in. He smells good, musky with something citrus. And he tastes better.

  He pulls away and brushes his thumb across my cheekbone. “You look beautiful.”

  My limbs tingle when he releases me as he reaches behind me to grab the bottle of wine. “Courtesy of Devin,” I explain. “His apologies for not being in attendance tonight.”

  He laughs and starts decanting the wine. “I think we’ll manage without him.”

  Venturing into the dining room, I find that the table is set for two, and fresh-cut flowers fill the vase beneath the chandelier. The overhead lights are dimmed and candles flicker on the table. A relaxing soundtrack croons from his iPod dock in the corner. Impressive, Stiles.

  I saunter back to the kitchen. “Can I help with anything?”

  He shakes his head. “I’m just about finished. You sit and have some wine.”

  I slip onto one of the bar stools, and he fills my glass.

  “What are we having?” I ask.

  “Roasted chicken with lemons,” he says, moving the chicken from the dish to the serving tray and garnishing it with rosemary.

  “Yum.”

  “Roasted potatoes,” he continues.

  I take a sip of the wine. “Yum.”

  “And a garden salad,” he finishes.

  “Yum.”

  My phone buzzes on the counter, across the room. Jackson hands it to me. It’s a text from Taylor, and I flush when I read it.

  Don’t forget to DTR!!!!!!!!!

  Overkill on the exclamation points. I decide not to respond and set it to the side. It buzzes with another message from her.

  I’m not kidding Charlie Day...

  Define. The. Relationship.

  I roll my eyes. How can she be so exasperating via text message? It shouldn’t be possible, but one thing I’ve come to learn is that with her anything is possible.

  Jackson looks up when I drop my phone to the counter. “Who was that?”

  “Taylor,” I grumble. I don’t want to DTR. I don’t even know how to bring it up. Every possibility I’ve imagined ends with me coming across as juvenile and insecure. Can’t this just be one of those things that goes without saying? If I could just skip the conversation and start calling him my boyfriend, that would be great with me. Does it really have to be “defined”?

  He picks up one of the serving dishes. “Everything okay?”

  I stand to help him. “She’s just checking up on me.”

  He sets the chicken on the table. “Well, I hope you’re hungry,” he says. Then he disappears for a moment, returning with the wine.

  “You know, I thought this dinner would be impressive—judging by your mac and cheese—but this is above and beyond.”

  He laughs and pulls my chair out for me, pushing it in as I sit. “Mac and cheese is going to be hard to top. I hope I don’t disappoint.”

  “You could never disappoint me.”

  * * *

  And he didn’t. The food was amazing. Is there anything he isn’t good at? Nothing comes to mind. That’s who he’s always been, though. Excelling in all aspects of his life and making it look easy.

  We stand side by side at the sink, rinsing the dishes and loading them into the dishwasher.

  Jackson watches me as I pour myself a glass of water. “Is everything okay? You’ve been a little distant tonight.” When I don’t say anything he pulls open his freezer. “Would strawberry ice cream persuade you to speak?” He takes a container from the side door and I smile.

  “It’s a good start.”

  He spoons a couple of scoops into a bowl and settles onto the bar stool beside me. We sit in silence, sharing the dessert and watching each other. When the dish is empty he pushes it away from us and reaches out to grab my chair, pulling it closer to his.

  He runs his fingertips down the length of my arm. “I wish you would tell me what’s bothering you.”

  I drop my eyes to my fidgeting hands. “It’s just...” I sigh, searching for the right words. They don’t come, so I look up and force myself to speak. “What are we doing?”

  He lifts his brows. “We’re having dinner.”

  I let my head fall back in exasperation. I could kill Taylor for encouraging this. “I mean what are we—” I motion to the space between the two of us dramatically, “—doing? Are we, like...friends?”

  The corner of his mouth tilts up like he’s amused. “I don’t know. Do you kiss all of your friends?” He rushes on when I start to scowl. “Yes, we’re friends. But we’re also more than that.”

  “What is more than friends?” I press. “A repeat of what we did when we were teenagers?”

  “No.” His eyes lock on mine and hold them. “That’s not what it is for me. I hope that isn’t what it is for you.”

  “It’s not,” I say in a rush. “I’m just confused. I can never catch my breath with you.”

  “That isn’t a bad thing.” His voice is soft and low, and it makes me want to curl into his arms.

  “I’m not sure it’s a good thing.”

  He takes me by the hand. “It’s a good thing.”

  The look in his eyes lures me, and I want it. To be consumed by them—by him. So I dive in, and I feel my wits slip away. “I’m scared.” The words ar
e out before I even know they’re on my tongue.

  “Of what?”

  “Of you.” And my feelings for you.

  “Of me?” He reaches out and idly twists a strand from my ponytail around his finger. “I’m the same person I’ve always been. You know me.”

  I feel like he can see through me right now. To all the deep, dark places I keep hidden. And there’s something terrifying about being so vulnerable. I realize my hands are trembling and press them to the table. “I’m afraid of being hurt.”

  He stares at me as I sit in complete silence, picking at a pretend spot on the granite countertop. “I would never intentionally hurt you.”

  The nerves make my voice shake a tiny bit, but I get a handle on it. “Do we ever intentionally hurt anyone?”

  He blinks a few times as if he doesn’t comprehend my question or the meaning of this conversation. “Just tell me what you want. Whatever it is, I’ll give it to you.”

  I take a few deep breaths and align the thoughts in my head. This is not the time to be shy. “A relationship. An exclusive one. Just me and you. Us.”

  His face breaks into a megawatt smile and all his tension melts away. I feel my own worry vanish. “I thought that’s what we already had.”

  I cover my face with my hands and groan. “Taylor insisted I make it official. She’s been talking about DTRing and it never being too soon all week.”

  He laughs, loud and loose, then stands from his bar stool and pulls me up with him. He takes a knee and reaches for one of my hands. “Charlie Marie Day, would you do me the honor of being my official girlfriend?”

  I slip my hand away and laugh. “Get up.”

  He straightens and takes my face between his hands. He kisses me once. “So is that a yes?”

  “More than a yes.”

  Consider this relationship defined, Taylor Hastings.

  * * *

  I’m awakened by Jackson unstrapping my heels and freeing my feet from them. They fall to the floor with a thud. I watch him through hooded eyes. He massages my bare feet, kneading the sensitive skin between his fingers, paying equal attention to both.

  My neck goes slack and I let my head fall against the soft leather couch. “That feels good.”

  He continues, applying just enough pressure to make my eyelids droopy. “You ready to go to bed?” he asks, just as I’m on the edge of consciousness.

  I manage a small nod but don’t bother to open my eyes. He lifts me, and I hook my hands around his neck. We cross the room then take the stairs. He lays me on his bed, and I open my eyes just in time to see him pad into the bathroom.

  I yawn and look down at myself. I’m in my dress, and it’s uncomfortable. Standing, I stagger into his closet, shaking out my heavy limbs and making my bracelets jingle on my wrist. I slip them off and place them on a nearby shelf. I do the same with my earrings then tug the band from my hair. I unzip my dress and let it fall to the floor. Next I release the clasp of my bra and let it drop. I pull one of Jackson’s shirts from its hanger and bring it to my nose, inhaling the scent before I slip it over my head. It makes me smile.

  Before the hem even hits my thigh Jackson’s arm snakes around my waist, and he pulls me against his chest. His hands move over my abdomen. I inhale sharply. His touch is slow and deliberate—somehow different than ever before.

  My eyes flutter closed. He brushes my hair over my shoulder and plants a soft trail of kisses across my back, from one shoulder to the other. My senses are hyperactive and all too aware of every inch of contact between us. His lips move to the sensitive skin beneath my ear, and a quiet moan escapes my lips. We’re both breathing too fast and too hard.

  I turn in his arm and press my lips to his, hard. I put my palms flat against his chest and push him, letting myself be pulled with him. He stops when the backs of his knees hit the bed.

  I fumble with the buttons of his shirt, my mind racing too fast to concentrate. He wraps his hands over mine, taking his shirt with them, and yanks, sending the buttons scattering across the floor.

  I giggle and push the fabric over his shoulders, exposing his chest. It really is beautiful. There isn’t an ounce of excess flesh anywhere. I spread my fingers wide and run across the contours of his muscles. It seems wrong—that his skin is so soft, but his muscles are so hard. He tugs me up, and I wrap my legs around his waist as my feet leave the ground. My hips push into his and I can feel how hard he is. How much he wants me.

  We fall onto the bed, and I stare down at him, my hair curtaining the sides of my face. His eyes are scorching bursts of green, as if someone’s set fire to the sparks and extinguished the blues—and he’s looking at me. My heart skips a few beats and then really starts to pound.

  His arms encircle my waist and he rolls us, pressing my back to the mattress. I close my eyes and enjoy the sensations—the rough slide of his warm hand against my skin. His hands drift over my ribs then back down, testing how far he can go. When I arch my back, his palm brushes over my breast, and I moan into his ear. The sound sends him into a frenzy, and our hands get busy. I reach for his belt, unbuckling it in a hurry and sliding it from the loops of his pants. I open my hand and let it drop to the floor. I return to his pants, unbuttoning them and tugging the zipper down.

  He slips his hands from beneath my shirt long enough to inch back and ask, “Are you sure you want to do this?” His eyes search my face for an answer.

  I arch my hips and press them against his. “Yes.”

  He stands abruptly and yanks the duvet from beneath me, tossing it to the floor. His sheets are cool and soft beneath me.

  When he returns to me his lips graze the skin across my navel and work their way up, leaving a hot wake behind. His hands skim my bare skin as they lift the hem of my shirt, creating a path for his lips. He pushes it up and over my head then flings it across the room.

  His eyes drink me in, roaming over every inch of my bare skin. Every rational thought has left my body. The only thing left is need. Burning, intense desire that pulls me to him like an undeniable force. And judging by the look in his eyes, he feels it too.

  He kisses my bare shoulder then his mouth drifts lower, burning a path of hot kisses to my chest. “You are so beautiful.”

  My impatient hands claw at his waistband, working it down inch by slow inch until he gets the message and stands long enough to step out of them. His body conforms to mine, and we’re skin to skin. The only thing that separates us now are two thin pieces of material.

  “Are you sure?” he asks again.

  “Jackson.” I take his face between my hands and look straight into his eyes. “I am more than sure.”

  He kisses me sweetly, cautiously. One hand knots through my hair and the other makes a light trail down the length of my body, drawing goose bumps from my skin as they pass. My nerve endings spring to life, jumping over one another in an attempt to appease their appetite for him, sending shock waves bouncing back and forth between his body and mine.

  His hand slips beneath the lacey threads of my panties, and I’m surprised by how much my body wants him to touch me there. His fingertips brush across the skin just below the waistband like he’s testing me. Then I lift my hips, and he slips one finger inside of me. A strangled moan tumbles from my lips, and my head falls back. When his hand starts to move, light explodes behind my eyelids. Everything scrambles. Goes haywire. My blood doesn’t know where to go. My lungs can’t get enough oxygen. And my heart isn’t pumping fast enough. This wild intensity grows inside me as I climb higher and higher, trying to reach something that I can’t even see.

  “Jackson.” My heels dig into the bed, and my voice is a breathless plea. “Please.”

  He pulls the fabric down and off in one swift motion. Then he stands, and he’s out of his boxers so fast it makes my head spin. I can’t help but look. He’s big and rea
dy, and for a few fleeting seconds I panic that this isn’t going to work.

  “Don’t worry,” he says, his eyes on mine.

  “I’m nervous,” I blurt. “What if I’m bad at it?”

  “Charlie.” His voice is soft and sure. “You won’t be bad at it.” He presses his lips to mine, and with that all my worries vanish.

  He lifts an arm and pulls the drawer of his nightstand open. His hand disappears into it, and he withdraws a small foil packet. My heart pounds out of control. Nothing is going to stop us tonight. In one quick movement he shreds it open with his teeth and rolls it down and over himself. I realize I’m holding my breath. He’s beautiful and perfect and all mine. And I’m all his.

  He places his hands on either side of my head and leans down, hovering over me and staring into my eyes. Then exhaling slowly, he shifts himself down to his elbows. His chest touches mine, and my breathing starts to get a little crazy again. He hooks his ankles with mine, coaxing my legs apart, and I let them fall open. I inhale deeply as he positions himself over me. Slanting his lips over mine, he kisses me softly and drops his body, entering me slowly.

  The sharp stabbing sensation makes me cry out, and I clutch the sheets on either side of me. Air whistles through his teeth and his exhalation morphs into a low, stifled moan.

  He withdraws partly then sinks back into me. I cry out again, but the unfamiliar sensation is less painful this time. He repeats this slow, gentle rhythm until I start to relax around him. The oddness fades, replaced with a warm, building sensation. He begins to move faster, finding a tempo. My body starts to climb again. Higher and higher, scrambling my brain in a way that makes it hard to process anything.

  A sheen of sweat forms between us. His moans become louder, his breathing more ragged. My own cries of pleasure grow, and I lift my hips to meet his thrusts, my heart hammering out of control, wild and pounding. I’m at the peak now. The place where sensation goes to explode, but for some reason I’m holding on.