But even that’s not what I want. Not really. What I want—what I need—is for Jackson to come to me. To use me as he has in the past to soothe his wounds and make himself whole.
So instead of sliding my hand down to close around his cock, I simply hold still, clinging to this man whom I love and need. And hoping against hope that he is not slipping away from me.
A moment passes, and then another. I hear the dog barking on the back lawn and the high-pitched squeal of Ronnie’s laughter followed by the lower tones of her great-grandmother and Stella, the housekeeper-turned-nanny.
Jackson is perfectly still, but then his hands rise to his waist to close over mine, so that as I hug him from behind, he is holding me in place. I close my eyes, relishing the strength of his touch. And when he turns me in his arms and his hands slide down to cup my rear—modestly covered by a pair of bikini-style panties along with the cotton of his shirt—I almost weep with relief.
He kisses the top of my head, and I tilt my face up to him. His mouth closes over mine, and he groans softly as his pelvis presses hard against me, his hands tight on my ass. “Christ,” he finally says. “Christ, Syl, I’m a fucking mess.”
“You’ll get through this,” I say. “We’ll get through it.”
“All I wanted was to take my daughter home.”
His words seem to twist inside me, as if they are just slightly off-kilter. It takes me a moment to realize why. “‘Wanted’?” I repeat.
He releases me, then steps back so that he’s leaning against the edge of the table. His face is hard, and when he speaks, his voice is flat and emotionless, as if he is working very hard to keep it that way. “I called Amy this morning.”
“Oh.” I take a few steps back and sit on the bed. Amy Brantley is his family law attorney in Santa Fe. She’s the one who filed his petition to establish paternity and parental rights. And although I have yet to meet her in person, I know that she’s the one who will be setting the hearing on that petition as soon as possible. “So what did she say? When are you setting a court date?”
I see a shadow in his eyes. “We’re not. We’re going to wait.”
“Wait? But—” I draw in a breath, trying to gather my thoughts even as I realize that I should have expected this. Because I know what this means. This means he doesn’t think he’ll be around to take care of her.
“Oh, god, Jackson.” I don’t mean for it to, but my voice is full of dread and fear.
“No,” he says, then repeats it more firmly. “No. I’m not giving in. I’m not folding. Not even close. But I’m also not taking risks with my little girl. What if the worst were to happen and I end up in a jail cell? Megan may be her legal guardian right now, but she won’t be once my rights are established. Would a California court send Ronnie back to New Mexico? To a former custodian with bipolar issues and an elderly great-grandmother? Maybe. But more likely she’ll end up in foster care. I can’t risk that. I won’t risk that.”
I want to protest. To point out how much this means to him. To beg him to believe that he’ll get through this. But I fear that saying those words will only highlight the extent of his loss. So all I say is “I’m sorry.”
“Me, too.”
He pulls me to my feet, and I slide into his embrace. He holds me tight, as if he needs something solid to hold onto, and I am happy for it to be me that he clings to. I return the embrace fiercely, holding him close, pressing my face against his chest. Breathing him in. I want to lose myself in him. I want to wish away all the bad things.
I want to not worry about where we go next.
“You haven’t asked,” he says, after an eternity has passed in his arms. “It’s been over twelve hours since the detectives said I’m a person of interest, and yet you haven’t asked if I killed him.”
I close my eyes and take one quick breath. “I haven’t asked because it doesn’t matter. I love you,” I say. “I’ll always love you.”