Bide (The Sun Valley Series Book 2)
Bide: Chapter 45

I don’t know why I’m here.

Dithering at his front door, hopping nervously from one foot to the other, a lukewarm casserole dish, the only thing keeping me warm. I left my jacket at the Jacobs’ place, and despite the freezing temperature, I was too chickenshit to go back and get it. I’ll get it next week.

Or any other Friday night until my death, probably.

Silver lining; the food at their place is always good. So good that my mouth waters every time we sit at the obnoxiously large dining room table and Mrs Jacobs brings out dish after dish of heavenly food. She must notice how quickly, and gratefully, I scoff it all down because she always loads me up with leftovers. Hence the chicken casserole in my hands and the half of an apple pie stuffed in a Tupperware container weighing down my tote.

Food. That’s why I’m here. You’re supposed to bring grieving people food, right? That’s a thing.

A sympathy casserole and pie.

That’s why I’m here.

That’s what I’m telling myself as I’m hyping myself up to knock when the door suddenly opens. A shriek escapes me as I’m almost barrelled over, a rough hand latching onto my hip preventing what would’ve been a very messy fall.

“Luna?”

Oh, fuck my life.

Pasting on my smile, I force my gaze to meet Jackson’s. “Hi.” At his questioning frown, I hold up the dish. “I brought you food.“

Slowly, his gaze drops from my face to my slightly pathetic offering. “You brought me food?”

I nod.

“You cooked?”

A flush creeps up my cheeks. “Well, no. Someone else made it. I’m just, uh, delivering it.”

Confusion creases his face but he takes the dish regardless. The keys in his hand jingle as he does, drawing my attention to them. “Oh shit, were you on your way out?”

“Kinda, yeah.”

“Shit.” I take a step back. “Sorry. I’ll just go.”

“Hey, wait.” Before I can get too far, Jackson loops a hand around my wrist. “Don’t. I didn’t really wanna go out anyways.”

I hate the sprig of hope that blossoms in my chest. “Yeah?”

Smiling gently, he nods. “Yeah.”

“Okay.”

“You coming in?”

I hadn’t planned on it—at least not consciously—yet I replace myself nodding. And when I step across the threshold, I’m caught between relief and regret.

Being back here feels… weird. Nostalgic. Sad.

So many memories, not enough emotional strength to process them all.

Thankfully, Jackson doesn’t notice my misty-eyed reminiscing; he’s already halfway to the kitchen. “You mind if I heat this up now? I haven’t eaten yet.”

“Go for it.” Grabbing the other Tupperware from my bag, I follow him into the kitchen, dropping the container on the counter and sliding onto a barstool. “I have pie too.”

He eyes the food with raised brows. “Who made all this? Your mom in town?”

I barely manage to contain my wince. “No. Pen’s mom.” Instinctively, my thumb goes to the ring on my forefinger. Still the one Jackson got me. I never took it off after the funeral.

Must’ve forgotten.

Jackson notices too, his eyes burning into the jewellery, his grip on the spoon scooping casserole into a bowl tightening. Coughing, I tuck my hands under my thighs, out of either of our sights. “I had dinner there tonight.”

Jackson tears his eyes away from my hands, or more specifically my thighs, I guess, and nods jerkily.

“That’s where I was last Friday night too,” I add. The night he asked me to do something and I blew him off.

For a moment, he freezes. Seems to think hard about something, brow furrowed, and comes to some conclusion that has him blowing out a breath. “You eat there a lot?”

Oh, if only he knew. “Kinda.”

He wants to ask more. I can see it on his face. But he restrains himself, busies himself heating up dinner. Silence settles, heavy and confused, only interrupted by the low buzz of the microwave. I’m worrying my bottom lip to the point of bleeding, gaze fixed on a random spot on the counter, when Jackson eventually sighs.

“Lu, why are you here?”

My gaze snaps up to his. “I had leftovers.”

He doesn’t look convinced. “Why are you really here?”

I don’t know. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

That scrutinizing expression softens. “I’m okay.”

“I’m glad.”

The microwave beeps loudly but Jackson doesn’t move. “You could’ve just called.”

I don’t have it in me to admit that I deleted his number. Or, more specifically, Pen did. Those first couple of months, when I wasn’t doing so well, I sometimes tried to call him when I was drunk. Hid my number and left voicemails I never sent. Pen got annoyed, said it wasn’t fair to Jackson. She transferred his number to her phone, deleted it from mine, and told me if I really wanted to call him, I could. When I was sober. All I had to do was ask.

I never did.

Exhaling hard, I slowly admit, “I wanted to see you.” The tiniest twitch tightens his jaw. “I feel like we left things on a weird note last week.”

“You mean when you left me alone in my own bed?”

I choke on my next breath, wincing and already preparing an apology before I look up and realize he’s joking. Shoulders slumping in relief, I cough out a weak, breathy laugh. “We shouldn’t have done that.”

Another twitch, his hand this time. One finger drumming steadily against the countertop. “Probably not.”

“Or any of the other stuff.”

The tapping stops. One dark brow arches. “The other stuff?”

“All the touching and shit.” The couple-y shit, I say in my head. Me sitting in his lap and playing with his hair and him touching my waist, hugging me, missing me. “We can’t do that. It’s too… confusing.”

I watch as his hands form fists, the muscles in his arms prominent as he tenses. His eyes burn into me, their intensity making me squirm. “What are you confused about, Luna?”

Internally, I snort. Where do I start? Literally everything in my life right now is confusing, him all too often being the pinnacle of it. Because I can’t quite replace the courage to put that into words, to tell him everything, I shrug.

Terrifyingly slowly, Jackson rounds the counter, coming to a stop right in front of me. I have to crane my neck to look up at him, throat bobbing as I swallow hard. With him so close, it’s suddenly a lot harder to breathe, to think, to keep my hands firmly cemented underneath my thighs. Giving me all the time in the world to evade, he raises a hand, cupping the curve of my neck.

“I wasn’t confused,” he says. “All the touching and shit wasn’t confusing to me.”

I almost fall off the stool.

“Jackson,” I croak.

“Tell me to stop and I will.”

Silence. Complete and utter fucking silence.

He’s the one who lowers his head towards mine, but I’m the one who kisses him.

The second our lips touch, a jolt of electricity shoots up my spine, one that I feel in my fingertips all the way to the tips of my toes. On their own accord, my hands bury themselves in his hair, pulling him closer to me, and I echo the groan he lets out.

Fuck, I missed this.

He kisses me like he never stopped. Like there isn’t a huge gap between this one and the last. Like I’m still his, and it hurts just as much as it heals.

As quick as he descended, Jackson suddenly pulls back. Pouting, I chase after him, but I’m stopped by the grip he has on my neck. “Fuck,” he curses quietly, scrubbing his free hand over his jaw.

“What?” I don’t quite manage to keep the whine from my voice.

“We can’t.”

I swear to God, I almost cry. Hands fisted in his t-shirt, I try and fail to tug him back to me, groaning when he stays a solid arm’s length away from me. “Why not?”

“You’re seeing someone.”

“What?” I jerk back, gaping at him. “No, I’m not. Why would you think that?”

“Cass saw you and him.”

“Me and who?”

Jaw tense, he all but spits, “Some guy at your job.”

Oh.

Fuck.

I’m going to kick Cass’ ass.

“I’m not seeing him. We’re just…” Fucking, I say only in my head but I have a feeling he catches my drift.

The grip on my neck tightens. Brown eyes flash as he runs his tongue over his teeth. My breath catches as his grip slowly, achingly slowly, circles around to entrap my throat, the lightest of pressure making me go a little dizzy with anticipation.

And then he’s kissing me again. Harder this time. Full of purpose with none of the hesitation there might have been a minute ago. Almost brutal but I take it all more than willingly.

I squeal in surprise when I’m suddenly lifted up, my legs instinctively wrapping around Jackson’s waist, my hands clutching his shoulders. Jackson swallows the noise, not once letting his lips leave mine as he walks us to the living room. Collapsing on the couch with me straddling him, I whimper when our hips align perfectly and I feel his cock, thick and long and fucking hard, straining against his jeans. Unable to resist, I grind against him, coaxing a groan out from his lips.

In a flurry of frantic hands, my dress is lifted up and over my head, tossed across the room. His shirt follows, as does my bra, leaving me bare except for the lacy panties I thank God I put on earlier. I barely feel the chill in the air, too consumed by the warmth of his bare chest beneath my palms and the hard grip he has on my hips as he guides my movements.

Warm, soft lips stray to my neck, my collarbone, my chest. Kissing and licking and biting, no doubt leaving marks in their path and making the sensation a million times better, knowing this is real and not another weirdly sad dream. My nails dig into his shoulder, my head thrown back as he licks up the column of my neck. I’m so caught in the feeling of having him pressed to me, underneath me, all over me that I barely notice when his little touches stop.

Blinking a couple of times to clear my head, I look down at him with a frustrated frown. “What? Why’d you stop?”

Jackson doesn’t lift his gaze from where it’s trained on my chest, tongue tracing a swollen bottom lip. Slowly, those big fucking hands cup my boobs, thumbs brushing over my nipples, circling the silver jewellery piercing them. His eyes are practically black when they flick up to my face, his voice ragged and strained as he asks, “What the fuck are these?”

The corner of my mouth quirks upwards. “Piercings.”

He gives me a look that screams ‘watch it’ and has me glowing inside because, fuck, I missed that look too. Mostly because it usually means I’ll get it later and I want it. “When?”

“A few months ago.” About the same time I dyed my hair.

Another pass of his thumbs has me squirming, my stomach clenching as I rock my hips, searching and desperate for friction. “Do they hurt?”

“Not anymore.”

“Thank fuck,” is all he mutters before his lips wrap around one hard nipple, teeth grazing the sensitive peaks, tongue lashing against the metal. Fingers roughly tweak the other one, and fucking hell, I’m a goner.

I’m a mess of whimpers and moans, crying out his name and practically tearing his hair out at the root. The constant attention from his hands and tongues combined with his hips thrusting up to meet my rocking ones, the rough material of his jeans brushing my swollen clit… fuck, I can’t it.

The orgasm catches me by surprise, so much so that I couldn’t hold it off even if I wanted to. My cries echo off the walls, stomach tensing as my pussy clenches around nothing, pleasure ripping through me so hard and fast, it would’ve sent me to the floor if I wasn’t already sitting.

Only when the fog in my head clears and my breathing regulates do I notice Jackson’s actions have come to an abrupt stop. “Did you just-”

“Shut up.”

My flushed cheeks only make him smirk harder. With a groan, he buries his face in my neck, nose brushing my jaw as he inhales deeply. “Fuck, sweetheart, I barely even touched you.” Ragged breaths heat my neck, his tongue lashing against me as he sucks on the sensitive patch of skin beneath my ear. “You needed me that much?”

Yes.

Yes, I did.

God, I really fucking wish I didn’t replace that smug look on his face as hot as I do.

“You’re an ass,” I breathe, the words half-whimpered as his hand smoothes over my hip, palm coming down hard on my ass. Yeah, fuck, I missed that too, and he knows it. When I jerk against him, an involuntary moan escaping me, he just laughs before claiming my lips again.

“You’re fucking soaked for me, Luna.”

It’s not a question. Just a statement. He just knows. And he’s spot on too, because I am. I’m fucking dripping, probably leaving a wet patch all over his jeans. I’m so turned on it’s painful yet so fucking welcome because I can’t remember the last time I felt like this.

Correction; I can’t remember the last time I felt like this with someone that wasn’t him.

I don’t even have it in me to be mad when I hear the tell-tale sound of ripping fabric as he tears my panties from my body. In fact, I cry out in relief because not long after, a finger drags through my pussy, teasingly circling the bundle of nerves crying out for him. I buck my hips, so ridiculously desperate to get him inside of me but he’s not giving in.

Using his grip on my neck, he drags me forward, lips barely brushing mine. “Tell me you want me.”

I don’t even hesitate. “I want you.”

“How much?”

“So fucking much.“ More than I want air. Or ice cream. Or wine.

His satisfied smile tickles my skin. “Good girl.”

My head drops to his shoulder, muffling a cry as two long fingers thrust inside of me easily. I forgot fingers could feel so good, so full. Fuck, I forgot foreplay could feel this good. When his fingers retract only to drive themselves in harder, farther, scissoring inside and stretching to the limit, my teeth clamp down on his shoulder to hold in my scream.

He doesn’t let my head stay buried in his neck for long. Holding my head upright, he makes sure my eyes are on him while his are on my frantic hips, his thrusting fingers, the heel of his hand grinding maddeningly against my clit. He’s met with little resistance when he adds a third, and when he ducks his head to worship my chest again, it’s not long before I’m coming around him again, writhing and convulsing on his lap as I chant his name. His name leaves my lips on a sob, a plea for him to stop or maybe a demand for him to never stop ever again.

“One more, sweetheart.” In a tender move that so contrasts the harsh way he’s assaulting my pussy, his free hand smoothes my hair away from my face before cupping my cheek. “I wanna see you.”

A long, low moan rips from my throat as he curls his fingers, stroking just the right spot to have me soaking his hand for a third time. His eyes stay trained on me, never leaving my face once, and I have to close my own because it’s too fucking much.

It feels like an age passes before I finally come down from the high. Or highs. It goes on for so long, I can’t tell where one ends and another might start. It’s almost embarrassing how loud I whimper, how empty I feel, when he pulls out of me, bringing his hand to his mouth and licking his fingers clean. Mine go to his waistband, rising up on shaky knees so I can tug the material separating us down.

I’m tired, blissfully worn out, but I want, I need, more.

His cock slaps against his stomach as I pull him free from his boxers, painfully hard and leaking from the tip. I wrap my fingers around him and he twitches in my hand, my pussy clenching in response as I imagine him twitching inside of me.

Yeah, I most definitely fucking missed that.

Like he did to me, I kiss from the corner of his mouth to his neck, grazing my teeth along his jawline. “Please, Jackson.” I squeeze his cock and he groans. “Please, fuck me.”

It’s like a flip switches.

His body tenses, his hand wrapping around my wrist and tugging, his voice almost pained as he murmurs, “Stop.”

I snatch my hand back like he’s burned me. Sitting back on his thighs, I frown. “What’s wrong?”

He avoids eye contact, staring at a spot behind my head, and I feel the need to cross my arms over my bare chest, to make myself a little less vulnerable. Especially when he says, “We can’t.”

I groan. Not this again. “Jackson, I swear to God, I’m not seeing anyone. I-”

“For fuck’s sake, Luna, I don’t wanna fuck you.”

It’s not his words that have my head snapping back. It’s his harsh, sharp tone. The confusing anger. The regret lurking in his eyes.

Mistake. That’s what his face says.

Mistake, mistake, mistake.

The back of my throat itches as I scramble off his lap, diving for my dress and yanking it over my head, snatching my bag off the floor and barrelling for the door before he even stands up. “Lu, wait.”

Embarrassment and the sting of rejection fuel my movements as I wrench the front door open. I jump when it slams shut again, Jackson’s hand coming down on the wood so hard, it groans. “Luna, I didn’t-”

“Please,” I croak out. “Please just let me leave before we do anything else I’ll regret.”

The tense, huffed breath he lets out tickles the back of my neck. My nails dig into my palms as the arm beside my head retracts slowly. The second it disappears from my peripheral, I’m out the door and stumbling down the drive.

I think he calls after me again but it’s blocked by the sound of my car door slamming shut and the engine sputtering to life, tearing out of that place so fast I’m surprised my wheels don’t let out a Fast and Furious worthy squeal.

I wait until the house is safely out of sight before I let a tear slip out.