Crashed Out (Made in Jersey, #1)(43)

“Sarge. No,” Jasmine whispered against his back, heaviness crowding in her throat. “They’re not asking to hear me sing.”

“They’ll change their minds once you start,” he returned, with total conviction. “You’re one of the best singers I’ve ever heard, Jas.”

Drawing air grew almost impossible. How had this trip to the mall turned into a tour of her insecurities? “I haven’t sung in so long. I’m not sure I even can anymore.”

Sarge held up a finger to the onlookers and faced her. When one large hand started to reach for her hip, but dropped on the trip over, she realized what an effort he made not to touch her while others were looking. A restriction she’d placed on him.

“Sarge.”

“Hey.” The importance behind that single word held her in thrall. “I started playing my guitar because of you, Jasmine. That day you sang in the blue dress? I had to make music after that because you made it sound so good. Made it look like a necessity.”

The floor disappeared beneath her feet, leaving her hovering over nothing. “You never told me that.”

A twinkle replaced the seriousness in his gaze. “Maybe I was waiting for us to be standing in a mall toy store full of strangers.” His eyebrows dipped, head tilting in the most persuasive manner she’d ever witnessed. “Sing with me.”

She studied the anxious group beyond his shoulder, wondering if she’d lost her damn mind. Any other Friday, she would still be working in the factory. Getting ready for a nowhere date or making plans to do happy hour at the Third Shift. How had she gotten here? “Okay,” she breathed before she could stop to question to decision.

One corner of Sarge’s mouth lifted, his pride drawing her forward so they could face their makeshift audience side by side. Much like the day she’d sung at the Feast of San Gennaro, her stomach pinched with tightening knots…but it wasn’t unpleasant. It was anticipation. And when Sarge strummed the first few chords of “Joyful, Joyful,” she couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across her face.



Jasmine threw the car into park a couple blocks from the Third Shift, her vision beginning to blur with mirthful tears.

“Did you see the disappointment on that woman’s face when I wasn’t Jon Bon Jovi?” Sarge’s imitation of the crestfallen woman sent Jasmine back into a fit of laughter. “She actually wanted me dead. She already purchased a Sarge Purcell voodoo doll and covered it in pins.”

“You can’t really blame her,” Jasmine said, wiping her eyes. “We were only a few minutes from Bon Jovi’s house. He probably draws a crowd when he goes out.”

He lunged across the console to tickle her ribs. “I can’t believe you’re taking her side. Some singing partner you turned out to be.”

“I’m sorry!” she squealed.

“Sorry about what?”

Jasmine twisted, trying to get away from his torturous fingers and failing. “I’m going solo. Sorry you had to find out this way.”

Sarge’s gaze narrowed. “Oh, baby. Now you’re going to get it.” His big hands planted on her denim-clad thighs, squeezing the most ticklish spot on her body. Jasmine shot up with a yelp, legs shooting apart to dislodge his hand to no avail. She couldn’t pinpoint the exact second his touch went from playful to downright sexual, but instead of tickling, Sarge began massaging the insides of her thighs. Pushed close to kiss a path over her ear.

“One hour, Jas,” he rasped. “One hour at this party before I take you home.”

“What happens at home?” Jasmine breathed, knowing full well she played a dangerous game. He’d made his intentions for the evening abundantly clear every chance he’d gotten since leaving the toy store. Backing her into alcoves, kissing her against the driver’s side door so long she’d been panting when he finished. This thing between her and Sarge was flat-out insane. She couldn’t catch her breath, couldn’t seem to stop turning up the volume on their attraction. Even as common sense told her to back off, her body—and God, maybe even her heart—had gone deaf to her protests.

“What happens at home?” Sarge’s bulk loomed closer, cornering her in the driver’s side seat, as his fingers yanked down her jeans zipper. When he reached inside to cup the apex of her thighs, Jasmine whimpered and allowed her legs to fall wider. “When we get home I’ve got this edge to take off. Soon as I make sure you’re wet enough, your feet won’t be touching the floor again for a goddamn while.” Sarge’s fist ground down on her center, same time as his teeth clamped on the flesh of her shoulder. He growled, biting down just enough, before drawing back with a soothing lick. “You will get off, because that’s a huge part of what gets me off. But, baby, it’s going to feel like I’m just using your little body. Using the f*ck out of it.”

Oh God, she could come just this way. His rasping voice in her ear, his rough palm dragging back and forth over her clit. “Yes, I want that. I want you to use me.”

His uneven exhale heated her cleavage. “That right? You want a desperate man riding your * from the back, so hot to come he forgets he’s a lot stronger than you? Forgets what gentle means?”

Jasmine’s most sensitive flesh clenched like a fist. A prolonged, devastating squeeze. “Oh my God, yes.”