“I think I do,” I say, though in truth, he may be right. I’ve witnessed his need to fight. For raw violence. To lose himself in complete, primal physicality.
Translate that to sex, and can I handle it? Do I want to handle it?
Hell, yes. A tremor of nervous excitement runs through me, culminating between my legs, and I squirm a bit from the simple knowledge that I am wet. Because so long as it is with Jackson, the idea of being taken wildly, brutally, is undeniably exciting.
“You told me that I get off on submitting, so long as I’m doing it willingly. So long as I’m handing over control. You told me that I like being used so long as I’m the one who sets the ball rolling.”
I release his hand, then rise to my feet. “That’s all I’m offering, Jackson, but I’m offering it without reservation or conditions. Use me, Jackson. Use me whenever or however you need. I know you won’t take it too far. I trust you. And I don’t want you to run from me. Not again. Not ever.”
I can see that he wants to answer me, but I don’t want to hear it. Not anything. Not yet. So I shake my head and press my fingertips over his mouth. “No. Not now. We’ve said everything that needs to be said for the time being. And right now, I’m going to take care of you another way. Lay back.”
He does, and I brush a kiss over his lips, then smooth his hair. “Close your eyes,” I say. “I’m going to go get an ice pack.”
“Yes, doctor.”
“Role-playing?” I tease. “Well, we can certainly add that to our repertoire.”
He chuckles, but his eyes are closed now, and the sound fades as he starts to drift.
I hurry to the kitchen, then return with a gel pack I use on days when I take yogurt and fruit to work. He flinches a bit when I hold it over the worst of the bruises, but he doesn’t open his eyes.
I minister to each bruise, holding the cold against them for five minutes each. I don’t know how much help it will be, but my brother, Ethan, got into a lot of fights in school trying to prove he wasn’t weak and sick, and my mom always treated his bruises with ice to keep the swelling down.
Finally, I decide that there are no more bruises to treat, and that I’ve exhausted my limited first aid skills. I strip off my own clothes, then climb into the other side of the bed. Jackson is dead to the world, and I don’t want to wake him, so I very carefully pull the covers up, then slide in next to him. Since I’m afraid of accidentally prodding one of his injured spots, I don’t spoon against him. Instead, I lay a few inches away, then rest my hand lightly on his hip.
I don’t like it, though. Even this small space of air between us seems like a barrier that is forcing us apart. And though I close my eyes and will exhaustion to sweep me away, sleep doesn’t come.
But then Jackson rolls over, his arm going automatically around my waist. He pulls me to him so that my rear is nestled against his crotch and my back is pressed tight against his battered chest. His breath is soft and even near my ear, and as soothing as a lullaby.
And as slumber finally sweeps me away, my last thought is that I was a fool. Because I should know better than to think that even the most potent pain would keep me out of Jackson’s arms.
seven
Jackson woke to realize that every part of his body ached.
His ribs screamed when he breathed.
His skin felt too tight and too damned sensitive.
Muscles burned, abrasions stung.
All in all, he was a fucking mess. And he had no one to blame but himself.
Himself—and Damien Stark.
Goddamn the arrogant prick. He’d fired Jackson? What kind of bullshit was that?