Crashed Out (Made in Jersey, #1)(33)

“You want more, Jasmine.” It wasn’t a question. “Feel my dick? It got the best last night and doesn’t want anything else. It needs more. Needs to feel you again so bad. Especially now that we know your * is a size too small for me.”

“Sarge,” she gasped, moving on his hand, going up on her tiptoes seeking a firmer hold, which he gave her in spades, molding, squeezing. Owning.

“I know,” he grated, the words vibrating where he laid them on her mouth. “I know, baby. Come back to me tonight and get what’s coming to you.”

Jasmine’s frustrated cry filled the kitchen. “You’re playing dirty.”

His tongue licked up her jawline and slid into her mouth, nudging hers in an invitation to come play. Jasmine’s eager participation was short, though, when he broke the kiss before she was even close to satisfied. Catching her off guard, Sarge lifted her legs up around his waist and dry-f*cked her against the counter. Buried his face in her neck and pumped, three, four, five times, before dropping her back down. “You haven’t seen dirty yet, Jas,” he rasped into her ear. “I saw your face when I walked in, and you’re not getting rid of me that easily. Now go get dressed while I make you lunch. I hear your father honking outside.”

After he had to physically prop her up against the counter, his arrogant walk back to the fridge should have made her indignant. It should have had her throwing a blunt object at the back of his head. Instead it had her admitting quietly that even with her newfound appreciation for Sarge, she’d severely underestimated him.

She just managed to keep her feminine pride intact five minutes later when she dodged his attempt to kiss her while walking out the door. Carrying the sack lunch he’d handed her.

His laughter echoed in Jasmine’s ears the entire car ride to breakfast.



The problem with trying to keep a woman coming back for more was…the waiting. It had been years since Sarge had this kind of free time on his hands, usually packing up and moving to a new city after only one gig. His days on tour were filled with phone calls with the press, annoying photo shoots, morning interviews at local radio stations, sound checks, and playing mediator to James and Lita. There wasn’t a lot of time left over for thinking. And he had a shitload to think about.

Jasmine had walked out of her apartment only thirty minutes ago, although it felt like a week. Now that he’d acknowledged that his bonehead game plan of f*cking Jasmine out of his mind once and for all was nothing more than a pipe dream, he needed a new course of action. And if he blocked out all the noise in his head and focused on what felt like necessity, Sarge couldn’t think past holding on to Jasmine as long as she’d allow it. Going back on the road had seemed like a given when he arrived in Hook. It wasn’t a given now. Simple as that. There was more than lust between him and Jasmine, but if he needed to use their attraction as a means to spend more time with her—until she saw he was for real—so be it. No one would catch him complaining.

Mentally replaying the phone calls he’d just made, he could admit without ego that he had a few tricks up his sleeve.

Truth was, the last year on the road had been shitty. He’d stopped chasing a way over Jasmine by sleeping around after two years away from Hook, but nothing he did regained what he’d lost by repeatedly giving up that part of himself. That part of himself he’d always felt he should be hanging on to. Fine, what he’d learned about women over those two blurry years was clearly being appreciated by Jasmine now, but just knowing he’d honed those intuitions with others made him nauseous. It had never felt good. Not the way it did last night. He was ruined for anyone else. Maybe he had been since the first time Jasmine walked into his living room.

There was a battle ahead, and not just to keep Jasmine in his life. Something had turned down the volume on the music inside her. She still painted the air with life everywhere she went, but it was subdued, and it shouldn’t be. Not from someone so amazing. But Sarge understood the feeling all too well. After the lights went off and the screaming crowd went home, he’d just been left with himself and his choices. That wasn’t an easy thing when somehow your choices had made you instead.

One such regret was his stupid belief that a monthly check was all his sister needed from him the last four years. Which is what brought him to Holy Cross Church’s doorstep, blowing warm breath into his cupped palms while waiting for Adeline, the choir director, to arrive. Anyone in Hook knew, if you wanted gossip without asking for it, you paid a visit to Adeline. She had a habit of talking to herself within earshot of anyone who would listen in—although Sarge always suspected she stirred the pot on purpose. Knowing River, though, she wouldn’t tell him without a fight how the last four years had been. And he needed to know so he could help.

“Never say that’s Sarge Purcell waiting on me.” He turned just in time to see Adeline slap her knee, lipstick-smeared teeth spreading into a genuine smile he couldn’t help but return. “I heard you were back in town and I said, send that boy to see me. Who was it that sent you? Was it Gerald at the tobacco shop?” Adeline trudged past him, fumbling with her keys. “Nasty gambling habit, that one,” she muttered on the way.

Same old Adeline. Funny how when he’d left Hook, he’d been disgusted by its inability to change. Now, though, he was glad as hell it remained the place stored in his memory. “How’s the choir shaping up for next year?” Sarge asked, following Adeline into the church office.