by Ryan, Lexi
My breath catches. Maybe I can have this. Here in the dark. Just once, before he returns to his new life and forgets about me. “I’m not asleep now.”
“Neither am I.” His voice is as rough as the fingers slipping over my sleep shirt and between my breasts. “I’m going to kiss you now.”
Please. I’m shaking. I barely trust myself to speak, so I nod and hope he can make out my consent in the darkness.
His mouth finds mine, and my whole body clenches at the electricity in the contact. It starts with a brush of lips, then a hand in my hair and his tongue touching mine. I swallow a moan and inch closer, parting my lips farther.
His kiss is nothing like I imagined it. It’s better. Every stroke of his tongue stokes the fire inside me, tightens that sweet ache between my thighs.
When he breaks the kiss, we’re both breathing hard and my lips feel swollen. “I wanted to do that last spring. I wanted to be your first kiss.”
“You were,” I admit. “That was, I mean.”
His breath leaves him in a rush. “I’m not sure I trust myself with you.”
I wish I’d lied—that I told him I was more experienced than I am just so he wouldn’t be scared away. But this is Easton, and between us, honesty has always been the only choice. “I trust you. Completely.”
He groans, and the sound is temptation and agony and pleasure all wrapped in one. “That’s why I should keep my hands to myself.” He cups my breast, his thumb grazing across my nipple. I swear his breath catches in tandem with mine. “Tell me what you want. I’m not trusting my judgment here. I need you to tell me this is okay.” Even as he says it, he rolls me to my back and crawls over me, bracing himself on one elbow and using his free hand to toy with my breast. He lowers his mouth to my collarbone, explores with his tongue and nipping teeth before kissing his way up my neck and whispering into my ear. “You’re in the driver’s seat.”
“I want everything.”
“Shay.” My name is the most erotic sound when he’s breathless. “I should stop.”
I whimper. “Please don’t.” Maybe I should be embarrassed by the desperate plea. Maybe I will be later. But right now, all I care about is getting more of him. “Easton, I need you.”
He shifts over me, pressing the heat and weight of his powerful thigh between my legs. “Can I make you come?”
I arch into that pressure, and my cheeks heat when I realize how easy it would be to rub against him—how much I want to. “Please.”
“You might be the death of me.”
I rub myself against his thigh again, and he hisses.
“Tell me you want me to touch you, Shay. Tell me I can put my hand between your legs and you’ll still talk to me tomorrow.” He shifts his thigh, putting pressure just where I need it. “Christ, I can feel how wet you are through your shorts.”
“Sorry.” But God, I’m not really. Any embarrassment I feel about my reaction to him is overridden by my need for friction. My only chance of keeping my hips still is if I glue them to the bed.
He chokes out a low laugh. “Don’t ever apologize for that. It’s so hot.” He sucks my earlobe between his teeth. “Feeling you grind against me is hot as fuck too. Don’t fight it.”
“Easton . . .” I slide my fingers into his hair and tug. “I want this.”
A shudder rocks through him. “Me too.” He lowers his mouth to mine and kisses me slowly—a long, lingering kiss that scatters all thoughts from my brain. When he pulls back, I swear he’s looking at me. Maybe my body is better in the dark. Maybe he won’t notice the extra weight I carry in my waist or how chubby my thighs are. He traces my lips with his finger. I catch it between my teeth, and he groans before withdrawing. He traces a wet path down between my breasts, over my stomach, and tucks his finger beneath the waistband of my panties. “I want to touch you here,” he says, kissing my neck. “I want to feel you.”
I lift my hips off the bed and toward his hand. “Easton, please.”
He nips at the tender skin beneath my ear. He slips his hand under the cotton and grazes a knuckle over my clit.
“Shit!” I gasp.
I almost expect him to laugh at my outburst. Instead, he groans. “You’re already so damn wet. Did you wake up like this?”
“Yes.” Because it’s you, I want to say. Because I’ve wanted you for so long.
He slides his fingers over me. “I fucking love the feel of you on my fingers.”
My body winds tighter, tighter, tighter with every word he speaks. He’s barely touched me, and I already feel close. “East.”
He pinches my clit between two fingers, and I gasp. “Shh,” he whispers, his mouth over mine. “I want to hear you moan, but I need you to be quiet.” He sweeps his lips along my jaw again then slides a finger into me.
My body locks up, clenching tight around him. A single finger, but he’s stretching me so much.
“Relax,” he whispers. “Fuck, you’re wet. Are you okay?”
“I’ve never . . .” I draw in a breath, because my body has already adjusted to the stretch of his thick finger, and pleasure has chased away the discomfort. “Not this.”
“Not even with your own fingers?”
“No. Just . . .” I can’t speak. Can’t think. His hand has found a delicious rhythm, pumping in and out of me, stretching me. Every time he plunges in, I want more—deeper—and every time he pulls out, I feel like part of me is missing.
“Good,” he growls against my neck. “I have no right, Shay, but I wanted it to be me. I want everything to be me.”
I barely register his words as pleasure knots in my gut and ratchets up my spine. He presses his thumb against my clit, and my body jerks. That thumb strokes, and my whole body shakes as I climb, climb, climb.
“Don’t fight it. Just let yourself feel good.”
I tug his hair. I’m clinging to him, to this moment, to the edge of a mountain I’m sure I’ve never seen before. His finger pumps faster and he presses his mouth to mine, swallowing my moans as I give in to the pleasure and let my orgasm pull me apart. I cling to him, shaking and boneless.
Even when I’m nothing but trembling aftershocks, he’s still kissing me, his hand moving in soothing, gentle strokes between my legs as I come down.
“I think I lied,” I say when he finally frees my mouth.
“About what?”
“I thought I’d given myself orgasms, but they were never like that.”
He groans, a long, low, tortured sound. “It’s different with a partner. Better. More intense.”
“I guess I should return the favor.” I roll to my side and reach for him, pressing the flat of my palm to his hard length. He stops me with a hand on my wrist. “What’s wrong?”
He brings my hand to his mouth and kisses my knuckles. “Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s great.”
“You don’t want me to touch you?”
He blows out a breath. “I want so much. But not tonight, Shayleigh. Not when I have to leave tomorrow.” He pulls me into his arms and presses a kiss to the side of my neck. “I don’t deserve you.”
Easton woke me up this morning with a whispered apology. He promised his mom he’d have lunch with her before he leaves, and he flies back to California tonight. I desperately wanted him to stay—to kiss me more and touch me again, to convince me last night wasn’t just a dream—but I didn’t want to seem desperate or clingy. I smiled and told him to tell his mom I said hi, and he kissed me on the forehead and made me promise I’d text when I woke up.
Me: Texting, as promised.
Easton: Good morning, sleepyhead. How are you this morning?
Me: I’m good.
Easton: Are you? I hated leaving after what happened last night.
I hated for you to leave too. I wanted more. But I can’t tell him that. Even if my fingers itch to type the words. I’m a coward, so I stick with something safe.
Me: I’m really fine. How’s your mom?
Easton: Good. We’re making plans for
her to move out to Cali this spring.
Me: Oh, wow. It will be nice to have her closer.
Easton: I wish I could move you all out. It’s nice to want things, right?
I bite back a smile, remembering our conversation last April, when he said he wished I could move out there.
Me: Maybe I’ll look into UCLA’s French literature program.
As soon as I send it, I wish I worded it differently—or that I hadn’t shared it at all. Easton knows I’ve been planning to stay close to home for college. University of Chicago has been my top choice for years, and I just admitted I might apply to a college across the country to be closer to him.
Two minutes later, he still hasn’t replied, and that does nothing to ease my anxiety.
I look at my phone every thirty seconds while I get dressed. Why did I say anything? By the time I head downstairs to join the hungover masses and clean up, I’m ready to invent the technology to delete texts after sending them.
It’s not until we’re all piled into Jake’s car and on the interstate headed back to Jackson Harbor that Easton replies. The text is so far from what I was hoping that tears sting my eyes.
Easton: Don’t change your plans, Shay. University of Chicago is your dream. I’m just joking around.
Shay
Twelve-and-a-half years later
Jackson family brunch has never been a relaxing affair. Every single one of my five brothers has managed to fall into a committed relationship in the last three years. Add in my two nieces and soon-to-be nephew, and our numbers have more than doubled. There are too many of us for even the simplest meal to be anything short of chaotic. And I love it.
But today, I’m grasping for my typical contented family-time happiness and coming up short.
Easton Connor is back in town and going to be in my personal space any second now. Well, not my personal space personal space—not like touching me. But in this kitchen. Sharing a meal with me—with us—for the first time since my father’s funeral. Not only will I have to face him, I’ll have to talk to him. I’ll have to play nice, because no one knows what happened between us.
If I have my way, they never will. I won’t let Easton ruin my day.
When the doorbell rings, my body locks up and the crowd clears out of the kitchen, leaving me blessedly alone for a moment before what feels like an impending apocalypse.
“About time you made it home for a family brunch,” Carter says at the front door.
Easton’s deep chuckle is warm and familiar, like fingertips running up my spine, like hot breath in my ear . . . like stolen kisses and my first shot of tequila.
I reach for the coffee carafe, only to find it empty. Everyone assumes that the Jacksons—craft beer connoisseurs that we are—love nothing more than we love beer. They assume wrong. In my family, coffee ranks high above even our favorite brews.
I grind some beans and dump them into the coffee filter. It’s a three-cup-minimum day. I’ve been working nonstop between finishing my dissertation, keeping up with the four classes I teach at Starling University, and job hunting. The stress is finally catching up to me, and there’s never enough sleep or enough coffee.
“East!” Brayden calls. I hear him jog down the last few steps and consider that perhaps Easton is the miracle worker he was deemed his second year in the NFL, because I didn’t think anybody but Molly and Noah could pull Brayden away from work that quickly. “Congrats on the retirement! How’s it going?”
I squeeze my eyes shut and listen to my family ooh and aww over him. Easton and Carter may have been the closest growing up, but Easton was friends with all my brothers, and he’s Jackson Harbor’s only claim to fame. Everyone’s buzzing about him moving back home.
Tuning out the conversation coming from the front of the house, I focus on the coffee dripping all too slowly into the pot when every instinct screams at me to run to the bathroom and check my appearance. I changed three times this morning before making myself put on my favorite stretchy jeans and a Jackson Brews T-shirt. Because nothing says “I don’t care that you broke my heart” like wearing the exact same outfit I do behind the bar at our family’s brewpub.
“Hey, pretty,” Teagan says, wandering in from the living room.
“Morning, beautiful.” I turn away from the coffee pot to smile at my best friend. Teagan looks stunning today, as usual. Her dark hair is pulled off her face, and she’s rocking a sweater dress that shows off her curves. I’ll be shocked if Carter is able to keep his hands off her—not that he typically bothers trying. He’s a fool in love.
“You okay?” she asks.
I nod, then cut my eyes toward the front of the house. “They’re acting like a bunch of puppies running to greet their master.”
She laughs. “But are you okay?”
My history with Easton is a secret, but when I found out he was coming to town, Teagan saw the panic in my eyes. I admitted I used to have a thing for Easton. She prodded for more information, but when it comes to Easton, I’m a vault. “I’m fine.” I smile, but judging by the snort of laughter that slips from her lips in response, it’s not convincing.
She opens the fridge and pulls out a bottle of champagne. “Seems like a good day for mimosas. Want one?”
Carter’s laughing at something Easton said. Why didn’t I just come up with an excuse to miss this morning? I’m staring down the barrel of my dissertation defense and have a pile of revisions I need to work through in the next two months, never mind the midterm essays I haven’t graded yet. No one would’ve held my absence against me.
I wave her off. “I’m good with coffee.”
She hums and grabs some champagne glasses from the cabinet.
I’m urging the coffee to brew faster and doing a pretty decent job ignoring the conversation at the front of the house when I hear Easton ask, “Is Shay here?”
The words are like a pair of jumper cables to my heart. Does he really care, or is he just being polite?
“She’s in the kitchen making coffee,” Carter says.
“Of course she is.” Easton chuckles. God, that laugh. It transports me to another time. If I close my eyes, I’m in his bed in Paris, the Eiffel Tower twinkling in the dusk beyond the window, his smell all over me.
I draw in a breath, and when I open my eyes, he’s standing in front of me—the man I once loved so desperately, the only guy to ever break my heart.
Easton’s eyes go wide, and his jaw slackens as he takes me in. His eyes skim over me, from my dark ponytail down to my beaten-up black Chuck Taylors then back up. “Shayleigh Jackson, what a sight for sore eyes.”
“Hey, East.”
Teagan nudges my arm, then shoves a glass of champagne into my hand. Because, obviously, she’s the best friend ever and knows me better than I know myself. “We’re out of OJ,” she says brightly.
I take a sip of the champagne and give Easton a small smile.
“You look . . .” he starts.
I arch a brow, waiting for him to finish that sentence. There are many directions he could go with this. A polite “great” would work. Or maybe the healthy muscle tone I’ve gained since I last saw him calls for “incredible.” I really hope he doesn’t say “all grown up” or any shit like that. I can’t be held responsible for what my fists will do if he treats me like a little girl.
Carter’s found the champagne, and he offers Easton a glass.
East nods his thanks before turning back to me. “You look well,” he says softly. Well. How . . . clinical. And somewhere in my chest, the remaining kernel of the girl I was winces. That girl wished every day that she could be thin, that she could walk into a room and drop jaws, that she could be more than “the smart girl.” The idea that she still wouldn’t be that even if she did lose the weight was a fear she didn’t even admit to herself.
But that girl didn’t know who she was. And this girl—this woman—does. So I look him over brazenly, taking in the breadth of his shoulders, the corded muscles of his arms, the wa
y his L.A. Demons shirt stretches across his chest, and, finally, the subtle wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. “So do you.” I tap my glass to his, but I don’t take another drink. Despite Teagan’s good intentions, I need to keep my wits about me today.
And for the last two months, I’ve anticipated his return with a mix of dread and curiosity. I feel more than a little guilty about the number of times his impending return has intruded in my thoughts during my scarce alone time with secret kind-of-boyfriend, George. I wonder if I would’ve even gone home with George that first time if I hadn’t learned Easton was coming.
And I can’t help but be grateful that I did. It’s better that I’m not single.
I place my champagne flute on the counter and trade it for a mug full of coffee.
When it comes to Easton Connor, I cannot be trusted.
Easton
Seeing Shayleigh Jackson for the first time in almost seven years is like an iron fist to the solar plexus. I’d be a liar if I said I hadn’t thought about her in our time apart, and an even bigger liar if I denied doing a little Internet stalking to prepare for this meeting today. Her Facebook account’s locked down tighter than Fort Knox, so I couldn’t get much there aside from her profile picture and a handful of pics both she and Carter are tagged in. Instagram and Twitter were no more fruitful.
This profile is private.
I’m sure I’m being defensive, but it felt like those words were directed at me. Like she’s kept everything private just to shut me out. I’m not entirely paranoid. She’s done worse to keep me away.
Luckily for me, there’s still Google. The Starling University website didn’t disappoint. She’s a lecturer there, teaching classes in postmodern fiction and contemporary women’s lit. According to her bio, she’s working on a dissertation on the intersection of pop music and contemporary American women’s poetry, which sounds so much like Shay that I had to smile. Life is full of shitty surprises, but I’m glad some things stay the same.