First Time For Everything

by Aimee Carson

  Regretting the loss of her job and missing out on more with Blake.

  She wanted Blake’s hungry hands on her body again. She needed his mouth on her skin, trailing those hot kisses that liquefied her bones and made her weep. More important, she longed for the kind of completion that involved a give-and-take, the shared pleasure an ecstasy of the acutest kind. And the longer she went without, the clearer it became that she’d never be satisfied with solitary activities ever again.

  Abigail Bennington breezed into the kitchen. “Goodness, girls,” Blake’s mother said. “What’s with all the negative vibes?”

  I lost my virginity to your son yet all he’ll give me is one night.

  Fortunately, Nikki answered for her instead. “Jax is having trouble raising money for her music program at the club.”

  Jax tried to push Blake from her mind. “The current economic environment is tight,” she said, feeling defeated. “Too much need and not enough dollars to go around.”

  Abigail pulled up a bar stool at the center island and took a seat. “That’s simple,” she said, running her fingers through her short salt-and-pepper hair. “What you need, Jax, is a media-worthy event.”

  “I tried that,” Jax said doubtfully. “It didn’t work.”

  “Something big enough to really get the public’s attention,” Blake’s mother said. “And I just happen to be an expert.”

  “An expert in what?” Jax asked.

  “Creating a scene,” Abigail said proudly. And then she leaned forward, the excitement oozing from her lined face. “So listen, chickadees. This is what we’re going to do....”

  * * *

  Several days later, Blake ignored the protesters chanting on the flat-screen TV and inhaled the scent of freshly baked bread, maneuvering through the lunchtime crowd of the delicatessen just across from his office. Many of the diners were from his division. Several called out to him as he passed, wishing him luck with the case or telling him it was in the bag.

  Blake wished he felt so confident. The closing arguments were set to start soon, and he knew the proceedings were going well for him. But one thing he’d learned through the years, no matter how open-and-shut the case, one could never be absolutely sure until the verdict was returned. Because human beings were unpredictable. Put twelve jurors together in a room, people with hopes and dreams and varying experiences, and anything could happen.

  Jax was a prime example. She was one of the most unpredictable women he’d ever met, which had the unfortunate effect of making her the most exciting woman he’d ever slept with.

  The sensual memory slid down his spine, spreading low in his gut.

  Blake wasn’t quite sure how he felt about the turn of events. Fortunately his case was revving up for the final days, consuming his every waking moment. Except there were a lot of moments when his mind would drift off, delicious images of Jax tripping up his focus. And what good did it do to avoid the pretty little distraction if his mind was consumed with thoughts of her anyway?

  He was beginning to think he’d be better off with her in his bed every night. At least then he wouldn’t be constantly questioning his one-night-only rule.

  Brow bunched in doubt, Blake paid for his sandwich and headed for a table. When the pretty, blond attorney from the civil division sent him a tentative smile, a welcoming look in her eye, and he felt absolutely no inclination to even chat with her, he knew he was in more trouble than he’d thought.

  Because the sleek, polished beauty paled in comparison to the wild, reckless charm of Jax.

  Blake carried his sandwich past the blonde’s table, pretending he was interested in one of several TV monitors blasting the midday news. But he didn’t care about the current footage of a chanting, discontented crowd, too distracted by the possibility of renegotiating his initial plan. Maybe he could do his job and still spend a little time with Jax? Maybe he would be more efficient if he wasn’t constantly wondering when he’d see the little hellion on heels again? And he was perfectly capable of—

  “Hey, Blake,” one of the boys from the narcotics division called out. “Isn’t that your sister on the TV?”

  Heart plummeting like a dropped concrete block, Blake shifted his eyes back to one of the flat-screens.

  And there, in the middle of a well-attended protest—under the watchful eye of a line of police—stood his sister holding a poster, her arms resting on her crutches. The dragon on her cast now elaborately breathed out a whoosh of fire that extended to her toes.

  And standing beside Nikki, mouth clearly cheering along with the crowd, was Jax.

  Blake’s jaw clenched and his grip on his sandwich grew tight, sending blobs of chicken salad plopping to his plate. His heart picked up speed as he stood, his chair scraping loudly against the tile, and tried to decide who he was going to kill first.

  Nikki...or Jax?

  EIGHT

  Jax had been summoned to appear before a judge before and had handled that with a bit of composure, so why was she letting her upcoming meeting with Blake get to her? Regardless, her heart picked up speed as she drew nearer to his home office. Hoping for the best.

  Expecting the worst.

  They had just been winding up their day at the protest when Blake had shown up, his disapproving expression hard, his grim, lawyerly attitude firmly in place. He’d said little as he’d calmly, coolly, but with the deadliest voice imaginable, informed them that it was time to go home. Not wishing to tire out Nikki, Jax had been ready to take his sister back to the house anyway. But based on the general principles of freedom and democracy—and all those other truly elusive

  ideals—Jax had considered telling him no. Something in his gaze made her, for once, hold her tongue.

  His gray eyes had resembled the color of steel, the memory distracting as she’d come home and assisted Nikki with her technically challenging daily bath, helping to shampoo the morning’s road dust from the brunette’s hair. As she’d settled Nikki by the pool with her ereader, Blake had passed by, shooting Jax a curt “Meet me in my office when you’re done,” his tone sending anxious ants crawling up her spine. Nikki’s whispered words—“I’ll give you an hour and then come search for your dead body”—had hardly helped Jax’s confidence, either.

  So Jax had returned to her guesthouse for a quick shower and change of clothes. Because no way was she going to go toe-to-toe with power-suit-wearing Blake while sporting a T-shirt sticky with dried sweat and reeking of car fumes.

  Needing the courage of a good butt-kicking country tune, but knowing a soundtrack wasn’t an option for the upcoming scene with Blake, she’d pulled on her cowboy boots instead. Now, in clean cutoffs, every step brought Jax closer to Blake’s office, making her heart thump harder as her heels clomped down the hallway. She took comfort in her cotton T-shirt with the reassuring image of the original queen of the divas, Aretha Franklin. When she reached the doorway, she paused to take in the room. The Italian tile was a soothing mocha color, and that, combined with the hunter-green walls and rich leather furniture, created a very masculine atmosphere. Pristine and immaculate and oh-so-Blake.

  And Jax was growing tired of waiting for the man to decide he wanted her again.

  Blake stood at the window, his back to her, watching Nikki, who had fallen asleep on her chaise longue under the patio umbrella. But he must have heard Jax’s approach.

  Without turning to face her, his voice low, he said, “What the hell were you thinking?”

  Her nerves stretched tighter even as irritation surged at his tone, and she fisted her hand at her side, resolving to remain calm.

  No matter how annoying the man became.

  “I was thinking I had a problem to solve,” Jax said.

  “Solve it how?” He turned to face her, his expression carved from stone. “By risking another arrest?”

&nbs
p; “Everything was legit. We followed the letter of the law,” Jax said. “Nikki and I obtained the protest permit. And your mother—”

  “My mother?” he said, and, from the tone of his voice, Jax was amazed his eyes didn’t pop from his head. “You dragged my mother into your fight?”

  Jax fought for patience. “I didn’t drag her. She volunteered,” Jax said, and then her expression softened with affection. Growing up, she’d wondered what her own mother had been like. She’d always pictured someone as kind and supportive as Abigail. Though preferably a better cook...

  “It was her idea,” Jax went on. “And she’s been really helpful—”

  “Helpful,” Blake repeated with a scoffing sound.

  Jax’s patience slipped a bit and she entered his office, coming to a stop beside his massive desk. She planted her fisted hand on her hip. “This discussion is going to take a long time if you keep interrupting me.”

  “I’ll do you one better,” Blake said, sarcasm oozing from his tone as he started to pace. “Because my day was interrupted when I got a glimpse of a news clip of my sister, the one who is studying to become a lawyer—and the woman I’m trying to help beat a charge of disturbing the peace—at a freakin’ protest surrounded by the police.”

  He came to a stop in front of her, his proximity imposing. “Do you know how difficult it would be to defend you against the first set of charges if you had a second set pending?”

  She inhaled a steadying breath, knowing her composure was wearing thin. “I told you, we did everything according to the law,” she said. “We had no intention of doing anything that would cause trouble.”

  A second bark of skepticism burst from his mouth. “Just like you didn’t plan on getting arrested during your performance at a flash mob?”

  She bit her cheek, counting out her thudding heartbeats until she was calm enough to respond. “Yes,” she said, her lips tight. “It’s amazing I’ve managed to make it to twenty-three years of age without your help.”

  And while her anger was taking on a life of its own, a part of her—a little bitty part—was pleased that he was mad. Perhaps, subconsciously, she’d agreed to Abigail’s suggestion of a protest in hopes it would piss him off. She was tired of his logic and reason. She was tired that she was the only one in this relationship that seemed to be affected. But mostly, she was tired of wondering when he was going to want her again.

  Maybe she hadn’t had much experience. Quite frankly, she didn’t care that he had been her first. Damn it, she knew the sex had been good. Spectacular, even. So how could he continue to stay away?

  Outside of their single night together, she’d never know by his behavior that they’d slept together. The man was entirely too composed.

  So let him be angry.

  “If you’re so hell-bent on being convicted of a misdemeanor and permanently losing your job,” he said, “feel free.”

  The judgmental tone strained her last, and very tenuous, strand of patience.

  “That’s right,” she said, the words tight as she stepped closer. “I do feel free.” She hadn’t bounced from home to home as a kid only to continue to be at the mercy of the world around her. Mr. Uptight had another think coming if he thought she scared that easily. “It’s my choice. My decision. My life.”

  * * *

  Blake watched Jax’s chest heave with barely controlled fury, his head thumping, his anger a living entity in his head.

  The heavy weight of responsibility threatened to crush him. He was tired of being the one to clean up everyone else’s mess. Of being the only one to think of the consequences. For once he’d like to live the fun and carefree life of his college years, the kind Nikki and his mother and Jax seemed to be enjoying every day.

  And why had everyone else’s good sense died and left him in charge?

  The thought of Nikki ruining her future, carelessly limiting her career before it had even begun, still burned in Blake’s gut. Learning to live with his role in his father’s death had almost crippled him, and he hated the thought of Nikki permanently paying for a momentary lapse in judgment. He’d promised his father he’d take care of his sister, and he damn well was going to follow through. And that meant helping her steer clear of the kind of regrets that caged your soul.

  But Jax wasn’t family, so why was he just as disturbed by her choices?

  Fear made his words hard. “If you want to sabotage your career, that’s your business,” he said, fighting to ignore Jax’s freshly scrubbed beauty, the lightly tanned legs bared beneath a pair of libido-disturbing cutoffs. And those sexy cowboy boots.

  Man, was it the woman’s purpose in life to drive him insane?

  “But I will not allow you to ruin my sister’s future as a lawyer by dragging her into your fight.”

  A flash of concern flickered through her eyes, and he knew the emotion was real. He’d watched them together; he’d seen the growing affection. Jacqueline Lee might not care if she risked her own future, but he knew she cared about his sister’s.

  Which was what made her actions doubly frustrating.

  Her mouth twitched with self-doubt. “I would never do anything to hurt Nikki.”

  He stared at her beautifully flushed face, refusing to look away. Anything to keep his gaze from those seductive legs and the disturbing memories of them wrapped around his waist. “Then leave her out of your fight.”

  Her voice was harsh. “Fine.”

  As their gazes continued to clash, he tensed and his jaw hardened, dismayed that he found little satisfaction in her agreement. Dismayed that he cared that Jax was intent on taking foolish risks.

  Dismayed that he cared...

  He took a step closer to Jax, unable to prevent himself from going on. “And stop jeopardizing your case by continuing to create a public stir,” he said. “You need to quit with the I’m-a-free-spirit attitude and start thinking about how your actions will be viewed by others.”

  The look that flashed through her eyes made it clear he’d chosen his argument poorly. Damn the fickle nature of human emotion. The woman should come with a warning label. The already heavy air pressed in around him as the moments ticked by and he waited for Jax to choose her defense.

  “My actions are none of your business,” she said.

  “You made them my business.”

  “Fine,” she huffed. “Then I don’t want your help anymore.”

  “You need my help,” he boomed. “I just want you to stop threatening your case by going out of your way to be such a bloody nonconformist.”

  The pause that followed was thick.

  Until she held up her wrist, displaying the two linear marks decorated with ink. “Do you see these scars?” she said, and his chest grew tight, sensing bad news was coming.

  “As a teen I carved them because it was better to feel the pain physically than to bear it in my heart,” she said.

  The words struck him hard, burning through his gut. His heart thundering, he opened his mouth to offer words of comfort, but she held up her hand to stop him.

  Their gazes locked, his breath froze, his throat tight.

  “You want me to change?” A few moments later she dropped her arm to her side, her eyes still flashing, her gaze inches from his. “Well, too bad. Because I spent years being shuffled from foster home to foster home. Depressed that others thought I wasn’t good enough to fit with their family. After a while it was impossible not to believe that there was something really wrong with me.”

  She hiked her chin proudly. “But I don’t buy into that self-esteem-destroying crap anymore. Because with the help of the teen club and an incredibly kindhearted volunteer—” she placed a hand on the image of Aretha Franklin plastered across her breasts “—I learned that I am a beautiful, intelligent woman who deserves respect. And I do not need you—” she
jabbed a finger at his chest “—to tell me how to live my life.”

  “Jax—”

  “And I refuse to let fear or self-doubt rule my future,” she said, and then she stepped back and jerked her shirt to just beneath her breasts, revealing an abdomen completely covered in a crisscrossing linear pattern of purplish scars.

  A body blow of epic proportions hit Blake, draining the blood from his face, leaving him dizzy.

  Eyes snapping, she said, “Because I’ve been there before and I’m not going back.”

  An ugly swearword burst from his mouth, and he fought for control as he took in the sight of months’—perhaps years’—worth of scars. Not an inch was left unmarked, her skin disfigured from the self-mutilation. Grief and horror and tenderness gripped him so tight his eyes stung with the emotion.

  “Jesus, Jax,” he croaked, stepping closer, his stomach threatening to reject what little of his sandwich he’d consumed.

  She met his eyes, chin still high, her expression stoic. “Don’t feel sorry for me,” she said, her voice hard. “I don’t want or need your sympathy. I am proud of who I am and how I live my life.” Confidence and passion and conviction radiated from her face as she enunciated each word clearly, her gaze boring into his as she went on. “Because I’m a goddamn warrior who has earned her stripes.”

  His chest heaving, a host of emotions battled for supremacy. Fierce admiration. A profound humility. And a sliver of jealousy that this woman, a woman who had lived through hell and come back fighting, had attained what was slipping further and further from his grasp every day. Living life on her own terms instead of denying what she wanted in deference to logic.

  Duty versus need.

  Lust versus reason.

  Making love to Jax or continuing to deny himself.

  He sucked in a breath, and, against his will, his gaze drifted to the pink lips that were set in a determined line.