Crashed Out (Made in Jersey, #1)(18)

When Jasmine finally emerged, the scent that escaped with her from the bathroom produced a low groan from his throat. She’d thrown on red terry cloth shorts and a tight-fitting white tank top, and the lingering shower steam had molded the material to her tits. Sarge’s mouth was devoid of moisture in seconds. Would tonight be the night he worked her out of his conscious? Impossible to tell. She seemed to have thrown up an even bigger wall between them since that morning, but he found himself reluctant to tear it down…with sex. There was a vulnerability to Jasmine now that he would have never equated with her in the past. And there was an answering discomfort in his chest as a result.

Jasmine narrowed her gaze at his feet. Or more accurately, the spindly little pine tree he’d dug up from the median across the street while she’d been in the shower. “What is that?”

“It’s your Christmas tree.” He considered the greenery, spotting what looked like chewed gum stuck to the bark. “All right, so it’s more of a Christmas branch, but I was improvising.”

She tapped the hairbrush she held against her thigh. “I didn’t…you don’t need to do any of this.”

“Ah, come on.” He picked up the lights again, plugging them into an outlet to make sure they worked. A stall tactic while he figured out how to make her stop looking so defensive. “I haven’t decorated for Christmas in years. Humor me?”

All right, sweet. That appeared to work. Jasmine nodded, running the brush through her hair…and making it damn difficult to keep from staring. The red material of her shorts hugged the flesh where he’d buried his fingers only that morning. He needed them there again, but some mysterious intuition told him not to push. Not yet. Sarge laid the lights down on the couch and reached for the Christmas branch, but paused when singing infiltrated the quiet apartment, soft at first, then louder. Voices from outside lifted in harmony together in a familiar Christmas carol that brought a smile to his face.

“The church still sends the choir around, huh?” After a moment, Jasmine nodded. “Let’s go out and join them,” he said on impulse, holding out a hand for her to take.

“What? No. I can’t.” She appeared frozen to the spot. “I’m sorry, I can’t.”

There was actual apprehension in her voice, in her tense demeanor, and it made his hand drop. “I haven’t heard you sing once since I got back, Jasmine. I remember when you couldn’t go five minutes.”

“I don’t remember that,” said too quickly.

Sarge moved in her direction. “Yes, you do.”

“You’ve called me a liar twice today,” she said, warding him off with a hand.

“And I was right both times.” He walked right into her touch. “If you talk to me about it, I’ll understand.”

Her laughter was abrupt and didn’t disguise the sadness. “Crowds of people buying tickets to watch you sing, major labels offering you deals…the same labels that closed their door in my face. You couldn’t understand, Sarge.”

Ouch. “No, but I understand rejection. And there are days I don’t want to sing, either, Jasmine. A lot of them.” He circled her wrist and pulled her close, willing her to look up at him, which she finally did. “Come on, baby. Let’s go show them how it’s done.”

Sarge held his breath as—for just a split second—she looked to be considering whether to go outside, chewing her lip in a distracting way. He was watching her so closely, he saw fear. Fear that flickered into something else. Intention. Maybe a hint of self-preservation, too. It should have prepared him for what came next, but nothing could have. Nothing ever would. Jasmine sidled close, letting her curves brush over him…and then she hit him with a heavy-lidded look that called to mind sweaty, middle-of-the-night sex. She picked up his hand and slid it beneath her tank top, stopping just beneath her tits, then guiding it over one pointed mound oh so slowly. “I’d rather stay inside where it’s warm, wouldn’t you?”

He was caught midgroan when she nudged him backward. The backs of his legs hit the couch and he went down onto the cushions, Jasmine wasting no time straddling his lap. Jesus. This is what he’d wanted. A way out of his obsession. A way to break the curse. But even as lust raced through him, common sense reared its head. Common sense and the fact that he cared about her, no matter the torture she’d put him through. It’s a tactic. Don’t go down without a fight. “I know you’re just trying to distract me.” Sarge tried to avoid looking at the gorgeous mouth hovering so close. Lost the battle. “Ahhh. You’d really seduce me just to avoid singing? How bad is it, Jas?”

“Stop.” Jasmine slid her fingers into his hair, brought their mouths against each other. “Please, stop?”

It was like being under hypnosis. Not just his mind, but his body. The woman who ruled both had said please and stolen his willpower. His dick swelled, enthusiastic to make contact with the entrance to her body, even through their clothes. His hands itched to throw her down on the couch and punish her for ruining him. For everything. For everyone. But he could feel the hurt inside her, and digging it up at the root needed to take precedent. “Talk to me, baby. Where did your voice go?”

“No one wants to hear it,” she breathed against his mouth.

“I do.” Kissing her mouth was a temptation he couldn’t turn down, but he pulled back after only one wet meshing of lips. God, her taste. “I can hear you in my head right now. I’ve never forgotten—”