Page 110 of Wait for Him

His brows are drawn together, and there's something underneath his voice I can't name, which bothers me more than the quiet did.

"Are you okay, Jackson?" I search his face. "Are we?"

He holds my gaze a beat too long, and my stomach drops straight through the floor of the car.

"There's something I need to do. We will be." His thumb strokes over my knuckles. "Do you trust me?"

"I do. You know I do." I gesture at him, all of him, because that's the best articulation my law degree can produce under pressure. "But I don't like this. Whatever this is, you feel distant."

He glances past me toward the open door. "Dave, shut the door for a sec."

The moment it clicks shut, he pulls me onto his lap like the conversation requires my full body weight against him to continue.

"I don't mean to be distant. There's something I have to handle, and I'll explain everything. I promise you that. But for now, I need you to trust that I'm yours." His hand comes up and brushes a strand of hair from my forehead, so gentle it makes my chest ache. "I've always been yours."

Then he kisses me, deep and slow, saying with his mouth what he won't let his words do yet, and I let him because whatever is sitting behind his eyes, this part is true. I'd stake everything on this part being true.

"I'm keeping you, and I'm not letting you go." He pulls back just enough to smirk at me. "Now get that fine ass of yours to work, and I'll see you later. We’ll talk to Bennet together about this later, okay?"

He smacks my ass as I climb off his lap, and I giggle like a fucking schoolgirl.

Actually giggle.

Disgusting.

What is this man doing to me?

Whatever it is he needs to handle, I trust him. I'm out of excuses and, honestly, I'm out of the energy it took to keep manufacturing them. I don't care anymore about the age difference, or that he's Michael's best friend, or any of the other reasons I've spent ten years hiding behind. So we're doing this. Completely, terrifyingly, probably inadvisably doing this.

I officially belong to Marcus Jackson.

And fuck me, I like it.

I check my calendar as I head toward my office to see what I've got today. The floor is fairly empty for a Friday, so it shouldn't be much, and I catch myself smirking at my own screen because what I'm actually checking is how soon I can get the hell out of here and back to him.

Color me addicted.

"Hi, Claudia. Is everyone already in conference room A?"

"Hi, Ms. Bennett. No, Mr. Sullivan canceled the board meeting this morning. I haven't received a date to reschedule yet."

I slow down. That's odd.

"Thanks. I'll head back and see him."

"Yes, ma'am."

My phone dings as I walk toward Michael's office.

Jackson: I miss you already. I'm staying at your place tonight.

A stupid smile plasters itself across my face.

Jesus.

Nearly forty years of carefully cultivated dignity, and this man has reduced me to grinning at text messages in corporate hallways.

I don't even hate it.