Read Jackson: A Sexy Bastard Novel Online
Authors: Eve Jagger
Jackson: A Sexy Bastard Novel (19 page)
T
wenty minutes later
, we pull up to a beautiful, historic-looking church that’s been transformed into an indoor-outdoor wine bar. Late afternoon brunch-goers mill about on the sidewalk out front, soaking in the late afternoon sun.
I’m completely confused as to why we’re here, but that’s probably because I’m still reeling from the idea of opening my own dance studio. It’s not something I would ever have admitted to myself that I wanted, because it always felt so impossible. But now . . . now I’m going to be back in front of that mirror, fingertips resting gently on the bar, with twenty little dancers behind me! Just as soon as I can get my head wrapped around everything.
“Gimme one sec,” Jackson says as he fumbles in the glove compartment. I look back out the window at the wine bar. “Ambrosia,” the sign says. They’ve done a great job with the building; ivy-draped trellises and cheery pots of daisies transform what was a serious gothic place of worship into what now looks more like a castle—a castle with trays of eggs benedict and Belgium waffles flowing in and out of its front doors.
“I’ve never been to Ambrosia before,” I tell Jackson, “although I’ve heard good things. What made you suddenly want to come here?”
“We’re not going to Ambrosia.” He continues to root around in the glove compartment. “Ah, here we are.” He withdraws his hand, holding a key dangling from a small leather strap. “Found it. Let’s go.”
Once we’re out of the car, Jackson motions to cross the street, so I follow him across and then around the side of a nondescript red brick building. At the back, he uses his key to unlock a rather beat-up-looking wooden door.
At this point, I really want to ask what we’re doing here, because the last time we broke into a place it nearly ruined his life. But I hold my tongue. Jackson’s no dummy, so I’m sure whatever we’re doing is perfectly legal.
At the top of a dimly lit stairwell, we come to another, slightly more polished door. Jackson stops. He licks his lips.
“Now, close your eyes.”
His face is so eager, I close my eyes without protest, lifting my chin expectantly. There is the click of the lock turning, and the door hushes softly as it opens.
“Can I open my eyes now?”
“Just one more second,” Jackson says. I feel him slip around me and vanish inside. Suddenly the backs of my eyelids turn from black to gold as bright light floods my face.
My eyes snap open.
The first thing I see is myself. Or, rather, a head-to-toe reflection of myself: pale wavy hair, arms folded, feet turned out—always, always turned out. The mirror covers the entire front wall, with a thin bar running across it at waist height.
It’s a dance studio.
“So. What do you think?”
I look to the right and find Jackson standing in the center of a giant floor-to-ceiling plate glass window that covers the entire wall. His hands are clasped nervously, and by the expression on his face, I suddenly know: it’s
my
dance studio.
“Jackson, what . . . ? How . . . ?”
“Shelby and I were really excited, so we decided to scope out some potential locations for your studio.” He crosses the room and stands before me. “There were a lot of good ones, but this one was my favorite. Do you like it?”
“It’s gorgeous, Jackson.”
I kneel to feel the floor and feel it with my hands. The surface is smooth, no nicks or scuffs anywhere. I stand again and gaze around in wonder.
“And all the natural light . . . . It’s absolutely perfect. I love it.”
His body loosens and a smile of relief slides across his face. I smile back, and then spontaneously do a little twirl. It feels so natural, spinning in this space—my space. Throwing my arms above my head in a loose
bras en couronne
, I perform a quick
pas de bourree
—a plié bend, followed by relevé onto my toes, crossing my feet quickly in front of one another. I finish in fifth position out of habit.
“Beautiful,” Jackson breathes from behind me, clapping his hands quietly. “Show me more.”
My body buzzes with the desire to keep going, to
dance
, but when I look in the mirror and see him behind me, I am consumed with an equal desire to touch him, to transfer the joy coursing through my body into his. Pivoting on one foot, I take two easy strides and press my hands against his chest.
“Dance with me.”
When he takes me in his arms, the whole room melts away. My body feels liquid as we glide across the floor. He follows my lead flawlessly; all it takes are slight nods of the head, bumps of the hip. His back and shoulder muscles ripple beneath my hands, and I can feel my body melding against him.
This is literally my dream come true: dancing across a studio—my studio—with the man of my dreams in my arms. I feel like I should pinch myself, but instead, I put a hand on the back of his neck and press my body into his, breathing in the musky, piney scent of him. “You’re a dream come true,” I whisper.
The next thing I know, our mouths have found each other, his lips consuming mine. I am drowning in the smell of him, burning from the feel of his heat against me, and still I can’t get enough of him. My hands are everywhere, touching his face, his neck, his chest. I tear at his T-shirt, yanking it until he finally rips it off.
With his eyes on me, I peel my shirt up over my head and slowly roll the yoga pants down my legs, inch by inch. He’s tense, eyes hungry, so I take my time. When I’ve stripped them completely, he captures me again and we sink to the floor in a tangle of limbs, mouths locked once again. I love this man. I love that he can fill me with this fire.
On the floor, I push him back and reach for his belt. His hands slip over my breasts as I work the buckle.
“Someone could see us, you know,” he chides, closing his thumb and forefinger over my left nipple. Sparks of pleasure rocket to my core.
“Doesn’t seem like you much care,” I respond. The buckle finally releases, and I yank his jeans down around his hips. His cock is hard, swollen, ready for me. I lick my lips and rock up on my knees, giving him a full view. “Was that your way of telling me to stop?”
“I never want you to stop.” He reaches for my ass as I rip open the condom I pulled from his pocket, then slowly lower myself onto him inch by inch. His cock glides in easily, and he raises his hips, filling me to the hilt. The sensation causes me to gasp.
“Fuck you feel amazing,” Jackson groans, digging his fingers into my ass and thrusting again. My body responds in kind. “You wanted it this whole time, didn’t you?”
“I did.” The words come out as a moan.
“So did I.”
We rock together as one, the pressure building inside of me, mounting, until he finally reaches under me and, ever so gently, presses my clit. Everything inside me erupts, and I come, and I come, and I come. As I buck atop him, his body rises to meet me, and then we are coming together, bodies melding in an inferno of pleasure.
Once we are both spent, we curl together on the floor, basking in the afterglow of sex and afternoon light shining down on the floor of
my
studio.
“Well, if I wasn’t sure about this place before, I am now.” I press a palm to the wooden surface beside my cheek. “I never felt a floor so forgiving.”
Jackson pushes my hair back from my neck and kisses it at the nape. “Yeah, plus we pretty much consummated the place.”
I pull his arms more tightly around me. “We sure did. And now I’ll have this happy little memory to perk me up while I’m failing to teach a five-year-old in a pink tutu how to plié.”
“Does that scare you?” Jackson’s breath puffs again on my shoulder. “Teaching a little five-year-old how to dance? Her future is in your hands.” His palms are warm, spread across my stomach, fingers gently stroking the tender skin beneath my belly button. “And you only just started to imagine your own future.”
“No, I’m not scared.” The moment I say it, I realize that it’s true. Yes, taking charge of so many children’s futures is a scary prospect. But when I have his arms around me, I feel confident. I’m no longer afraid of responsibility, of the future, of anything.
Turning to face him, I flash a devilish grin. “But just in case, I might need another memory to get me through those tough classes.”
At first Jackson looks confused, but understanding dawns on him as I reach for his cock. It stiffens on contact.
“Babe.” He licks his lips and I feel him inhale against me. “I’m ready to make as many memories as you want.”
“Fantastic.” I wrap my legs around him and lean in close. “Then let’s get started.”
THE END
E
ve Jagger is
the USA Today bestselling author of the Sexy Bastards series. A native of Georgia and a true southern girl at heart, she's a stay at home mom to two kids, and married to a sexy man who doesn't mind being used as research for those naughty scenes.
Eve cut her teeth writing in high school and college, but it wasn't until recently that she got the itch to write a full length novel. She loves complex, emotionally-charged characters and wild, sexy leading men. HARD, CASH, A NIGHT WITH KNOX, and KNOX are available now.
