Jasmine stepped out.
It was like he’d been storing a shaken bottle of lust in his stomach all day, and someone had just uncapped it, lusty fizz shooting out in every direction. Christ. In leggings that molded her thighs and a thin sweater that hugged her tits, he was starving for her in an instant. He hadn’t seen her since last night’s couch debacle and had spent a good part of the day cursing her name, but now? Now he just wanted another shot. And he wanted it bad. Common sense continued to intrude, telling him it wasn’t Jasmine’s fault that he’d been consumed by her half his life, but everything below his brain ignored that sentiment, only wanting to get even.
Before Sarge could get a handle on the desire she’d liberated, she spoke in a low voice. “I was going to leave before you got here. Riv just needed someone to keep an eye on Marcy while she cooked. I—”
“Why would you leave?” When Jasmine shivered from the cold, Sarge whipped off his coat with a curse and wrapped it around her shoulders. For the life of him, he couldn’t keep his hands from lingering on her arms once he’d transferred the coat, couldn’t stop himself from pulling her close. Closer. Their white billows of breath met and danced between them. At once, it felt as though another four years had passed since the last time he’d seen her, rather than a day. Her eyes were flitting around, landing on everything but him, so he grasped her face to hold her still long enough to make eye contact. “Please stay.”
“I told your sister what’s been happening.”
Jesus. He didn’t know if he should be horrified or glad their encounters had been enough of an event for Jasmine that she’d felt the need to share. “Okay. That might make things a little weird, but I’ve lived on a bus with musicians. Weird is my new normal.”
She gave him that lip-pursing smile that tilted her eyes. “An example, please.”
“Our bass player saves his toenails in a coffee can for good luck.”
Jasmine whistled low beneath her breath. “Good one.”
“Yeah? It never upended in your bunk.” It felt so good holding her face and watching her smile gain momentum. He could have stood there the rest of his life and it wouldn’t have gotten old. “Come inside. Don’t leave because of the weird.”
She cast a sidelong look at the house. “Maybe for a little while.”
“That’ll work until I can get a better answer.” Sarge let his thumb trace over her temple, down to her jawline, memorizing the awareness that crept over both of them, breath by breath. The way her stomach went concave against his belt buckle, then shuddered back out. After making sure no one from the house was watching through the window, he dropped both hands and settled them low on her hips, the contact hidden by the sides of his jacket. “You going to let me make you feel good again, Jas?”
Doubt trickled into her expression. “I don’t know yet.”
“Good. I’m kind of enjoying the convincing process.” Sarge coasted a hand over her waistline, flattening it at the small of her back, just above the flare of her ass. “And you ain’t seen nothing yet.”
“Yeah?” Did he imagine the way she arched and tempted his hand lower? “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
He nudged her forehead with his own. “I’m the last person you should be afraid of, baby.”
“You were the baby,” she breathed.
“You’re overthinking again. Remember what happens when you do that?”
She did an inward roll of her lips and let them pop back out, juicer than before. “You make me stop thinking?”
“That’s right.” Fuck it. He was going to kiss her. Right there, in the light, on the pathway to his sister’s house. That mouth was his. He couldn’t stand living in a world where he hadn’t kissed her yet. They were so close he could feel her minty breath ghosting over his lips and he knew it wouldn’t be gentle. She was about to get the kind of kiss that would get her legs up around his waist like a fucking clamp. It was a bad idea right now. Yeah, it really was. But sometimes good things came from the worst ideas, right? “I hope you’re okay with being wet at the dinner table.”
He yanked her closer—
“Sarge,” River called from the porch. “Jasmine isn’t the main course.”
With a sigh brimming with frustration, Sarge dropped his chin onto Jasmine’s head. “Forget what I said. Weird is overrated.”
When Jasmine backed away, he wrestled with the urge to hang on, but common sense descended, forcing him to follow her up the path. “Hey Riv,” he called over Jasmine’s head.