Page 209 of Wait for Him

"Rosalie."

Oh no. Full name. Abort, abort.

"Jackson."

"The truth."

"The truth."

He takes a step closer through the water, and his eyes make the slow trip from my face to the dress floating loose around my thighs before coming back up. I don't need to look down to know what my nipples are doing. Traitorous little bitches.

"That's not an 'I just got left at the altar a few hours ago' conversation, Jax. It's a 'let's revisit tomorrow under less inebriated conditions' conversation."

"Then what should we discuss?" He takes another step, and my thighs part like a fucking welcoming party.

Oh, for fuck's sake. Could we have a little dignity?

His eyes drop, catching the movement, but he doesn't say a word. He just takes the bottle back and drinks, eyes never leaving mine as he closes the last of the distance until he's nearly seated between my open thighs.

"More?" He tilts the bottle toward me.

I reach for it, but he gives me a slow shake of his head.

"Open."

Well. That's a tone I remember.

My lips part and my head tips back. His eyes stay fixed on my mouth as he pours the champagne over my tongue. Some spills past the corner of my lips, running down my chin and throat, and then his tongue follows it in one slow pass from my collarbone to my jaw.

Every nerve I own reports for duty at once.

"You never answered my question, Rosalie." His voice is low against my ear. "What should we discuss?"

I know exactly what I need to ask him. Two questions have been sitting underneath every other question since I came home, and with him this close, I don't need tomorrow or sobriety or the long version anymore.

"Did you love her?"

"Never."

"Did you stop loving me?"

"Fucking never."

It comes out rough against my throat, and that's it. That's the whole conversation I was saving for sober. Two questions, two answers, everything I actually needed to know delivered in under ten words. The rest is just paperwork.

"Then I don't want to discuss anything."

I grab a handful of his hair and yank his head back with the force I've been aching to use for over a year. His whole body shudders at the pull, and fuck, I know that response. I know exactly what he wants from me.

"Make me come on your fingers," I tell him. "Like my good fucking boy."

Jackson

I've never almost come from a sentence before in my life, but holy shit.

I crash my mouth into hers and she moans into it, and a year of trying to live without this woman goes straight to hell. Suddenly I'm a junkie relapsing, mainlined after a year of white-knuckle sobriety, and I already know I'll never beat this addiction. I never want to.

I reach under her floating dress, gather a handful of lace and rip, sending her panties drifting off somewhere behind me as my hand moves between her thighs and I slide my fingers through her slick heat, wiggling the barbell against her clit.