Page 84 of And Now, Back to You

His hand slips to the back of my neck.

“Kiss me,” he rasps.

I want to. I want to so bad. But I can’t.

I shake my head and try to slip off of him.

But Jackson holds me tighter, his other hand rising to tuck against the small of my back. He’s a brick of warmth beneath me, watching me patiently, his head haloed in white.

“Tell me,” he whispers, his voice cracking down the middle. He looks confused. Worse, he looks hurt. My heart pounds, a zip of awareness up my spine. “If you feel it, too, then tell me why. It’s only us here.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because.”

“That’s not an answer, Delilah.”

“It is to me.”

His hands tighten. “Don’t hide,” he says, still with all his impossible patience. Ever since we were caught in that tiny alcove, he’s been the calm one. He’s been the one with the plan. It’s infuriating. “Is it because of what happened?”

“No, it’s—”

“You said Keith didn’t give you a hard time.”

“He didn’t, but—”

“Are you embarrassed?” His mouth twists down at the corners. “Did I embarrass you?” he asks, softer this time, and oh. My breath splinters. A sharp, tingling ache.

I shake my head, throat thick.

“Then what is it?”

The truth rattles out of me. “You need to do it,” I blurt. “You need to be the brave one. If that’s what you want, then you need to kiss me. I can’t always be the one taking charge, Jackson. I need to know it’s—”

His mouth is on mine before I finish my sentence, bruising and certain. He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t go slow. It’s an exclamation point at the end of a sentence.

He shifts his hand until he’s cupping my face, his thumb under my chin, the rest of his fingers spread wide against my jaw.

We’ve done this before. Our mouths pressed together, exchanging easy breaths. But Jackson so quickly drags us into something darker, more ferocious, his mouth urging mine to keep up. I asked him to show me he wants it, and he does. With every rough slant of his mouth against mine. With his fingers pressed tight at the base of my skull. He adjusts me just the way he needs to kiss me best, then bites down against my bottom lip with a pained groan.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “Delilah.”

I kiss him again and settle my weight more firmly against him, letting myself go pliant, my hands inching up to press over his shoulders. We’re wearing too many layers. This is a kiss meant for barely lit hotel rooms and fireplaces, not the bottom of a snow-covered hill edging an abandoned parking lot. But I can’t stop. I want everything that Jackson keeps buttoned up and tucked away.

I shimmy up his body until my knees are at his hips. He makes another rough sound, scooping me closer, kissing me harder. He licks into my mouth and I meet him there, my hands pushing up to his snow-damp hair, jostling his fogged-up glasses.

“Delilah,” he says between our panting mouths, and I hold on to him tighter. “Next time, just tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

I’m mindless, selfish. A heavy drumbeat of desire. I want so many things, but I want him most of all. This silly, ridiculous man who kisses me like I’m something precious. Like he’s snapped all the strings holding him back.

“What you want from me.” He nudges my nose with his. “I’ll give you whatever you want.”

My stomach twists. “That’s not how it’s been between us,” I whisper.