Crashed Out (Made in Jersey, #1)(8)

Something unruly danced inside his rib cage, begging to get out and run free. He couldn’t even appreciate the truly gorgeous f*cking image of Jasmine at the stove, her waist flaring into hips in need of gripping, her long black hair falling in waves down her back. All he could process was irritation. It might have been unintentional, but with one gesture, she’d sent him back to the misery of his teen years. Being babied by a woman who inspired sweaty, wicked images at inopportune moments of his day. Sending him to the school bathroom to work out the ever-present lust wrought by his older infatuation. It had never gone away, no matter how many times he’d tried to appease himself. Every day had left him feeling raw and exposed—kind of like he felt right now.

He refused to sink any deeper.

He advanced into the kitchen and scooped the cheese singles off the counter, intending to put them back in the fridge. “No need to go to the trouble, Jas. I’m not hungry.”

“Ah, come on.” She peeked up at him from beneath thick eyelashes, a sly smile decorating her lips. The easy comfort she projected was completely at odds with the precise bread-buttering taking place in her hands. Was she nervous around him? The possibility sank like an anchor in his stomach, but he wasn’t given the chance to fix it, because it happened. “You’re always hungry,” she said quietly, before setting down the bread knife, turning to face him…and ruffling his hair.

Sarge’s mind attempted to overrule his body, which swelled to life like the tide during a full moon. What he wanted to do painted itself in vivid detail behind his eyes. Snatch a hand out to circle her wrist and pin it against the small of her back. To overwhelm her. To chastise her for trying to knock his vital years of experience from their perch. He wanted to watch Jasmine’s back arch out of necessity, tilt her tits up, mashing those pointed peaks against his chest, and f*ck…that’s when he would start praying that her answering sob of surprise would shake free those mounds from her dress.

He didn’t act on any of that, however, because she’d already been held against her will tonight, and he would dive headfirst into an early grave before he fell into the date from hell’s category. Inaction wasn’t a possibility, though, either. Fuck no. Whether or not he’d anticipated it upon returning to Hook, tonight had been a long time coming, and he wouldn’t let the chance go to waste. With a quick dip forward, Sarge scooped up Jasmine and deposited her on the kitchen counter, adjacent to the stove, coming up between her splayed thighs. When her ass landed on the beige Formica, her red lips parted on a startled gasp, tits bouncing with the impact, right beneath his mouth. Christ.

With a steel will, Sarge reined in the moan of a man finally granted conjugal visits after a decade in prison. It was right there, imprisoned in his throat, all thanks to having Jasmine so close. Feeling her body heat. Listening to her inhale.

“What are you— W-what was that?”

He pressed his knuckled fists into the counter on either side of her hips and leaned in, close enough to see her irises dilate. “I’m making you the grilled cheese this time around. How’s about that?”

An adorable wrinkle formed between her brows. “I already ate.”

“I’m aware.” Dragging himself away was a feat, but the image of her on a date with Carmine induced enough annoyance to make it possible. He could feel her attention following him closely as he picked up where she’d left off with the grilled cheese, slipping two slices of cheddar between the white bread and dropping it onto the well-heated pan. The two minutes it took to cook the sandwich simmered with tension, amplified by their lack of conversation. Not to mention, Jasmine’s drawing attention to her toned thighs by tugging on the hem of her dress, writhing that delicious ass on the counter to keep it pulled down. They met eyes as she performed the sexy maneuver, and he swore her breath hitched, but couldn’t be sure, thanks to the sizzle of the pan.

“I’m really not hungry,” she muttered as he flopped the grilled cheese onto a plate and cut it in half.

Sarge lifted one half to his mouth and blew on the edge, all the while easing back toward her at the counter. When he was inches away, her knees shot back together, but he let his lower abdomen rest against them anyway, wanting—needing—to see how she would react. But she stayed still, a wealth of caution radiating from her tense form. Those deep brown eyes seemed to liquefy as she focused in on his mouth…and that was all she wrote. His hard-on grew more prominent in his jeans, contouring to the curve of his fly. Again, that desperate moan climbed in his throat, the one that would give him away as a man obsessed, but he staved it off. The need to jerk himself off had been this intense only one other time in his life, and it had involved Jasmine in a glittery gold bikini, oiling herself up on a towel in his backyard. He’d been seventeen—Jasmine, twenty-four—and after five minutes of watching the torture from his bedroom window, he’d laid face down in his bed and come, groaning into his pillow, after two frantic pumps.

Now, Sarge lifted the sandwich to her mouth, letting the crust brush against the seam of her plump lips. “Eat it for me.” Of its own accord, his left hand dropped to her ankle, teasing the inside with back and forth brushes of his thumb. “I don’t want your last meal tonight to be one that guy paid for. Not while I’m in town.”

Brown eyes clashed with blue. “I don’t think…eating this particular meal is a very good idea.”