I Wish You Were Mine (Oxford #2)(43)

She started to tell him good night, then realized that there’d be no such thing as a good night for either of them. Mollie knew full well that she’d be staring at the ceiling into the early morning hours.

Mollie turned slowly and headed toward her room, torn between wanting to cry and wanting to scream.

She’d done the right thing. It was all too weird. And Jackson and Madison might be divorced, but Mollie’s gut was telling her that Jackson hadn’t let go of his previous life yet. He was still clinging to the old Jackson. And the old Jackson meant Madison.

Mollie’s stomach twisted at the thought. She shut her bedroom door and in a daze lowered herself slowly to the bed. Forced herself to run through what a reunion between her sister and Jackson would feel like. Forced herself to remember what it had been like to watch the casual way Jackson had always pushed Maddie’s bangs back from her perfect face. The little ways Madison would touch Jackson, even as she carried on a conversation with someone else. They were so used to each other. They belonged together.

There was a knock at Mollie’s door, slow but loud. Deliberate. Daring her to ignore it.

She wanted to ignore it.

She wanted to crawl into bed, pull the covers over her head, and wake up in someone else’s body, in someone else’s life. She didn’t want to be smitten with a man she couldn’t have.

And yet…he was her friend. Despite the murky sexual haze, she cared about him. And she couldn’t ignore the knock of a friend.

Mollie got up and went to open the door.

Jackson stood there, suit jacket gone, tie loosened around his neck, as he braced both hands on the door frame, staring angrily down at her.

“You’ve got it wrong.” His voice was harsh.

“Jackson—”

He cut her off. “No, it’s my turn to talk. You’ve given your speech. And I get it, Mollie, I do. Madison is your sister, and she made you PB&J as a kid when your parents checked out, and that’s fine. But open your eyes. You don’t owe her anything anymore. You are your own woman, and you are a woman, Mollie. You’re not a kid. You’re not a girl. And if I’ve been a complete * lately, it’s because I’m having a hell of a time coming to grips with the fact that I want you. And f*ck, Mollie, I want you. I want you so bad, I’m dying.”

Mollie had never made the first move on a man in her life. She was old-fashioned like that. But she made the first move now.

She took a step forward, placed a hand at the back of his head, and pulled his mouth to hers.





Chapter 17


Jackson went perfectly rigid at the feel of Mollie’s mouth on his. At the taste of her wine-flavored, soft, full lips.

He let her have control…for about five seconds.

And then he devoured her.

Sliding both hands into her short hair, he fisted the blond waves and tugged them back, just roughly enough to make her gasp, and then he plundered her mouth with his.

She gasped, and he took unapologetic advantage, sliding his tongue into her hot mouth.

Fuck. Kissing Mollie was an erotic high he wasn’t sure he’d ever experienced before.

The women he’d slept with in recent months had been physical releases and not much more. Women whose names he couldn’t remember.

And before that, there’d been only Madison.

Madison, who liked to be treated like a princess, unless she was halfway drunk on white wine, in which case he’d always had the sense that she didn’t really care that it was Jackson who was touching her.

But Mollie…Mollie knew it was him.

He could feel it in the way her fingers tangled in his hair, in the way her lean body arched against his, slim and wanting. They both knew this was crazy—forbidden, even—and that made it even hotter.

Jackson released her hair, running his hands down her back until he found the zipper of her dress. His fingers hesitated just for a moment, giving both of them a chance to come to their senses.

In response, she pulled his lower lip between her teeth and bit down.

Jackson growled and jerked the zipper down roughly. He placed his palms against Mollie’s back, meaning to slow things down, but the skin-to-skin contact only ignited them.

They moved toward the bed, their mouths never breaking contact as her fingers tore furiously at the buttons of his dress shirt. She tossed his tie to the side and clawed at his shirt.

“Off,” she whispered against his mouth.

He pulled back slightly, feeling a twinge of pain as he maneuvered his shoulder to pull his shirt off. But it was worth it, because his shirt hit the floor at the exact same time Mollie wriggled, sending her red dress pooling at her feet.

Even as his hands itched to reach for her, Jackson could only stare. He didn’t need a reminder that he was seven years older than she was, but he got one as he took in her flawless body.

She was all lean, smooth curves and perfect skin. There were no battle wounds, no extra ripples. She was too good for him. By far.

He ran a hand over his face. Mollie was twenty-eight-year-old perfection, and he felt like a beat-up old man next to her. She couldn’t possibly want—

Mollie stepped forward, setting both hands against his chest, and his breath caught as he saw the reverent expression on her face as her fingertips explored his skin.

He tensed as he waited for the moment when she touched the roughened skin of the scar from his surgery, but she didn’t flinch. She lifted blue eyes to his and then licked her lips.