I slipped on my boots, walked to the bed, both hands planted on either side of her, I leaned in and kissed her.
She opened for me immediately, my tongue swept in and it took a great amount of self-control for me not to go for it. My already hard dick throbbed in my jeans and I had to fist the sheet to stop myself from touching her. With one last, slow glide of my tongue against hers, I pulled back and kissed her forehead.
“See ya around.”
I stood and turned to walk out, but I didn’t miss the want in her eyes or the shock on her face.
She didn’t move.
Not that I’d expected her to.
Nor did she say a word.
That was far easier than I’d thought. Not me walking away, that took a good amount of effort. But I hadn’t given her the chance to kick me out and I’d figured that would’ve been the first thing she’d do.
6
Tuesday
It had been two weeks since I’d seen Jackson and I was seriously contemplating electroshock therapy or a lobotomy. I needed to find a way to purge all memories of Jackson Clark from my brain. If I’d thought he was a bad idea before I’d taken him home with me and invited him to my bed, I now knew, with undeniable certainty, he was a really bad idea.
He’d jumped over tempting when he whispered in my ear and told me I smelled good and I’d felt his breath on my neck. And that was before he’d explained what he could do with his tongue and sent a wakeup call to my girly parts. No, he’d gone straight to dangerous.
It had been weeks, and I was still pissed at myself about the whole interlude. Vacillating between kicking my own ass for being so weak and giving in, then for being all kinds of stupid and not taking him up on round two. I’d already broken my years-long dry spell, what would it have hurt?
I wished he’d been lying about his skills in the bedroom. But more than that, I really wished I could stop thinking about him. It was bad enough my libido had decided now would be a good time to have a resurrection, but I couldn’t get his smile out of my head. And don’t get me started on his laugh. It was deep and rumbly and it came quick. There was nothing selfish about Jackson. Not with his humor and not with dispensing orgasms.
“This shit is ridiculous,” I mumbled and yanked my makeup bag out of my suitcase and flung it on my bed.
This had to end.
My phone rang, I checked the display and slid the red decline icon across the screen. I was too tired to talk to Mercy. I had to finish unpacking from my trip up to New York and it was nearing ten o’clock. I still hadn’t eaten dinner and all I wanted to do was veg out and forget what a crappy few weeks I’d had. I knew it was a bitch thing to do, but I also knew she’d understand, which made me an even bigger bitch for totally taking advantage of my best friend’s understanding. But I was too mentally exhausted to talk to anyone.
I also wanted to forget the new designer I’d been forced to work with. She had found a little success, now she was a total diva, barking orders, complaining, and being generally bitchy. It was the show from hell, and her designs were uncomfortable. Not only that, but she’d insisted on all of us walking the runway to rap music. Not any old rap music either, the shitty stuff that you couldn’t understand. There was nothing sexy about the beat or the words. It made for a really craptastic walk.
I tossed the last pair of shoes from my suitcase into my closet and beelined it to the kitchen. I was going to pig out big time now that I didn’t have to prance around a stage in next to nothing.
I was vowing never to eat another salad, yogurt, or vegetable again while scrolling through my music on my phone. I finally found a 70s rock list that would hopefully erase all the shitty rap I’d had to endure over the last few days and fired it up through my Bluetooth speakers.
The second the electric guitar intro of “Owner of a Lonely Heart” filled the room I felt my mood lift. Yes, that was what I needed, loud music and real honest to God junk food. I rooted through my pantry, gathering all the items I needed to make a late-night dinner, which would consist of popcorn, a bag of chips, and boxed mac and cheese.
Popcorn in the microwave popping, my hips swaying to quite possibly one of Yes’s best songs ever recorded, water boiling for my mac and cheese, I opened the bag of chips. I was still belting out the lyrics when my hand dove in the bag to grab a greasy handful of yummy goodness. Then I saw a reflection from my kitchen window and movement out of the corner of my eye.
I was no longer singing, my hips weren’t moving to the beat, and the bag of chips was no longer in my hands. They were flying up in the air, and I was screaming down my house.
The bag landed on the floor, chips flew everywhere, the microwave was pinging, announcing my popcorn had popped, and I was still screaming, Only, now, I was screaming words. “What the hell?”
“I knocked,” Jackson announced, smiling.
I’d never before contemplated murder, however, seeing him standing in my kitchen, amused, I wasn’t only contemplating it, I was plotting it. I picked up the box of mac and cheese from the counter and threw it at his head. Which, much to my annoyance, he easily caught before it smashed him in the face.
“You’re such an asshole. I had a fucking heart attack,” I was yelling partly so he’d hear me over the music but mostly because I was angry as fuck he was in my house. “What are you doing here?”
“Do you mind?” He motioned around the room in what I assumed was his dickhead way of asking me to turn down the music.
“Owner of a Lonely Heart” had turned into the Beatles’ “Blackbird,” and I didn’t want to miss one of my favorite songs. But I grabbed my phone off the counter and reluctantly turned the music down but not off. If for no other reason than for him to be able to hear me clearly when I threw him out.
“Now, why the hell are you here?”
“I left my watch here the other night.” His lips were twitching in the sexy way they’d done the other night, and that pissed me off, too. He was definitely fighting a smile. Ass!
“Watch? You came to my house after ten at night to get a damn watch?”
“Yep.”
What the hell was wrong with him? If it was at all possible for my ire to get any higher, hearing his smug one-word answer did it.
“Did you think maybe you should’ve called first? Send a text asking if you could stop by?”
“Don’t have your number, Sweetness.”
“A smoke signal?”
“Mercy said she’d call and tell you I was on my way over. I just left her house.”
Shit, she had called, and I’d sent it to voicemail. Damn.
“When I didn’t answer her call did it ever cross your mind it was because I was perhaps sleeping or otherwise occupied and didn’t want to be disturbed?”
My heart rate was finally under control from having the shit scared out of me. Now that the fear had dissipated all that was left was white-hot rage that Jackson was again in my home. But more than that he looked good. Even him smirking looked hot, which was irritating as shit. I wished he’d grown a few moles on his face, got a bad case of acne, and gained five-trillion pounds since the last time I’d seen him so he would cease to look better than most of the male models I worked with.
“It had, actually. But Mercy told me not to worry about that, she said after you get back from a trip you crank up your tunes and eat junk food until you fall into a food-coma. Which, I gotta tell you, the way you look, knowing what those long, sexy legs feel like wrapped around me, I didn’t believe her. Seeing as you were ripping into a bag of Lay’s while getting ready to eat processed cheese sprinkled on pasta, I’m astonished.” Why the hell was I so predictable? Of course, Mercy would know what I was doing, I had the same routine every time I came home.
I tried, really tried, not to think about my legs wrapped around him. Heat hit my cheeks, and I knew I was losing, but when my core gave a spasm, I knew I’d failed, miserably.
“I can’t believe you just said that.”
“Yes,
you can.”
Ass!
Moving on.
“Did she also tell you just to walk into my house and put me into cardiac arrest?”
“She did, yeah. And you’re not having a heart attack. You may’ve peed your pants a little, but you’ll live.”
Ohmygod. All I could see was red when I picked up an orange from the fruit basket and chucked it at him. He easily caught my efforts. Again, pissing me off.
“I didn’t piss my pants, you asshole.”
“I didn’t say you did. I said you may’ve.”
Sweet baby Jesus, please give me the strength to not kill Jackson Clark.
“Where’s your watch?”
“In your room on the nightstand.”
For once he wasn’t being smug, the way he casually mentioned he’d been in my room made my stomach stupidly whoosh. I wish I’d already eaten so I had buttery, processed, fried junk food to blame the flutter on.
“You can wait here. I’ll go get it.”
I scurried, yes scurried, down the hall to my bedroom. I checked the nightstand on the side of the bed I slept on and it wasn’t there. I walked to the other side and there it was, his freaking, dumb watch that was the cause of my latest run-in with Jackson. It being there reminded me why he’d been in my bedroom in the first place. That thought made my panties dampen.
Shit.
I had to get him out of my house, pronto.
7
Jackson
The scent of gardenias lingered around the room. A smell I’d forever associate with Tuesday. I’d dreamt of the sweet-smelling flower since the night I’d spent with her. I couldn’t get how she’d cuddled close and rested her head on my chest out of my head. Couldn’t stop thinking about how good she’d felt pressed against me. The memories never failed to make me hard and make my heart pound.
I was checking out her living room when I heard the pan rattling on the stove and quickly decided on tonight’s course of action. I wasn’t going anywhere until she talked to me. And even after that, I was staying awhile.
I grabbed the box she’d thrown at me, ripped open the cardboard, and spilled the noodles into the boiling water. Her kitchen was just as nice as her living room. Top of the line appliances, just like the electronics in her living room. Her furniture was expensive, too. Everything was in its place. No clutter, no mess, no character. This surprised me. Tuesday was full of life, funny, always smiling, and had a big personality. But not her pad. The space she lived in was boring and lonely.
I was picking up the bag of chips off the floor when Tuesday came into the kitchen.
“What are you doing?”
“Do you know how much salt are in these things?” I held up the half empty bag of Lay’s. Tuesday stopped a few feet from me and a hand went to her hip and her pert little nose scrunched.
So damn cute.
“Good to know. Here.” She was holding my watch out, letting it dangle on one finger trying to keep her distance.
The reasons why she needed that distance made me grin. She’d like me to believe she was unaffected, may even have been trying to convince herself she was. But it was a lie, and we both knew it.
“Thanks.” I took my watch and made sure our hands touched. I heard it and saw it, the quick inhale she’d tried to cover up by yanking her hand back like I’d stung her.
“What are you doing?” she asked again.
“Cleaning up,” I said, laying my watch on the counter.
“Why?”
“Well, it’s kinda my fault there’s a mess on your floor.”
“Kinda?”
“All right, Sweetness, it’s one hundred percent my fault there’s a mess. That’s why I’m cleaning it up. You may wanna stir your noodles so they don’t clump.”
“My noodles?”
“Tuesday. Your mac and cheese. Stir the pasta so it doesn’t stick together.”
She walked to the stove muttering something under her breath. I couldn’t quite catch it with the music still on, even though it was at a much lower volume than when I’d come in.
“You really should keep your front door locked. Especially when you’re blaring your music. Any psycho off the street could walk in.”
“Yeah. I learned my lesson.”
I felt, at that point, it was pertinent to hide my smile. She was cute as hell when she was trying to insult me.
“You have great taste in music,” I told her.
“You like Elton John?” she asked, looking at me over her shoulder.
I took her in from top to toe. Her face, freshly washed and devoid of makeup, was even prettier than when she had shiny lips and mascara on, highlighting her already long lashes. I wondered if she even realized it wasn’t her looks that made her so beautiful.
“Yeah. “Tiny Dancer” is one of my favorites by him,” I answered, noting the song that was playing.
She shook her head, and I watched the long strands of her blonde hair tousle with the movement. Great fucking hair. Perfect to wrap around my fist and tug.
“This is everyone’s favorite of his. Even non-Elton fans like “Tiny Dancer.” What else do you like by him?”
It was ridiculous how happy I was she was talking to me. If she wanted to argue about Elton John, I’d take it. I’d take anything she wanted to talk about if it meant she wasn’t kicking me out.
“Your Song.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Why?”
Her face dropped forward, and I knew she was hiding her smile. A giggle bubbled up and she snorted before she said, “That’s a sweet love song.”
“And?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t figure you for a soft ballad kinda guy.”
“There’s a lot about me you’ve figured wrong.”
Her back snapped straight and her laughter died. “I wouldn’t go as far as saying a lot.”
I opened her trashcan and dumped in the handful of chips I’d picked up and waited for her to say more. When she remained quiet, I decided to test the waters. “How was your trip to New York?”
“How’d you know I went to . . . Mercy.” It wasn’t a question, she’d merely figured it out on her own. “It was long.”
“How do the shows work? You were gone for two weeks; do you work the whole time?”
She walked the pan to the sink and used the lid to strain the water out while answering. “This show was only two nights. Last night and the night before. The days leading up to it are for fittings, choreography, rehearsals, that kind of stuff. But I went up a little early to meet with my manager and agent.”
I didn’t like the way she winced when she mentioned her manager and agent. “Everything all right?”
“Everything’s great on my end. Though my agent wasn’t entirely happy when I told her I wanted to slow down on my bookings.”
“Why do you want to slow down?”
“I . . . never mind.” She caught herself getting ready to tell me something personal and changed the direction of the conversation. “The designer I was working with this time is relatively new. In the last six months she’s landed some big gigs, sold some of her designs to high-end stores overseas, so now she thinks she can be as bitchy as she wants to be and everyone around her has to put up with it. She also changed up the show three times, the last being an hour before it started which led to numerous meltdowns. By the time I left I’d vowed never to work with her again. I can put up with a lot, I know the attitudes and egos that are synonymous with this industry. What I have no tolerance for is mean people. And the way she was acting was just plain ol’ mean.”
I watched as she finished making her mac and cheese. She was a stunning woman, more so while she was in her kitchen in a pair of loose-fitting sweatpants and a tank top. I figured she’d be that way in a brown paper bag. I wondered why she wanted to slow down; with her beauty, I figured she’d be in high demand.
“I’d like to go to one of your shows.”
“You’ve already said that,” she reminded
me.
“Well? Can I go to one?”
“Um. No.”
“Why not?”
“No one watches me work. It’s distracting. Besides sitting in a room full of hoity-toity executives would be boring as hell. It’s not like what you see on TV.”
She grabbed her popcorn out of the microwave and her bowl of mac and cheese and made her way back to the living room. It wasn’t lost on me she hadn’t offered me any.
“Well, you have your watch. My dinner’s ready. Since you let yourself in, I assume you know how to let yourself out.”
Tuesday unceremoniously plopped down on the couch, dismissing me.
“Why do you want to slow down with work?” I asked, sitting next to her, ignoring her request for me to leave.
“What are you doing?” she snapped.
“Talking,” I stated the obvious.
“Seriously, why are you doing this? You have your watch. We’ve already talked about how the other night was a mistake. One that will not be repeated.”
She sounded convincing enough, and I almost would’ve believed she meant her words if she hadn’t glanced at my mouth with every other one.
She was lying.
Again.
“No, Sweetness, we didn’t talk the other morning. You said some words, and I didn’t agree with any of them. Other than, maybe, when you said we had fun. Though, I’ll reiterate, I could then and, now two weeks later, still can come up with a fuck of a lot better ways to describe our night. And there was not a damn thing that happened by mistake. I promise you, every swipe of my tongue, every touch of my hand, and stroke of my cock was deliberate. And when you were moaning your passion down my throat, and I was swallowing that pleasure like a dying man, that was not a mistake either.
“You have a way of distorting the truth, but if you try and deny for one second you weren’t with me every step of the way, you’re a damn liar. As to why I’m sitting here talking to you? That’s what two people do when they’re friends.”
“Are you calling me a liar?” I’d watched her pretty cheeks blush as I reminded her of our night together, now they were getting redder by the second, and I suspected it was not lust tinging them.
Claiming Tuesday: The Next Generation Page 4