Mine Would Be You (75)

“Stop teasing me.”

His lips quirk up. “Tease you? I never do that.”

I sigh dramatically, looking away as if looking for an escape until he pinches my skin lightly and my eyes flicker back to the hazy amusement in his own eyes. Neither of us speaks for a few minutes. The silence fills the space, not in an uncomfortable way, but in a way in which we can both be. Both of us in the same space, not saying anything because we don’t need to.

I watch him watch me. He does so lazily, slowly, as if he has all the time in the world to do so. I take the time to make sure I have little details memorized. Like that his freckles are heavier and closer together on his left cheek than on his right. The small white scars on his chest from playing—and falling—too much as a kid in the woods of Georgia. The shape of his lips and the feel of his fingertips.

I commit those two to the deepest part of my memory.

Jackson’s voice is soft and low when it breaks the silence. “Thank you.”

Those two little words made me feel content when Veah said them to me over the phone, but when Jackson says them, it feels like my heart is going to fall apart. His eyes are focused on his hand, which is currently playing with the bottom of my pajama shorts, brushing my skin every few seconds.

“You don’t need to thank me. I haven’t done anything.” I rest my hands on his chest. Knowing I’d do anything he needed without hesitation.

“You’ve done everything. So, yes, I do. Just accept it.” He taps my nose with his hand before letting it fall back to my skin, albeit a little bit higher. A small smile pulls at my lips.

His hand snakes around to my lower back, holding me where I am tightly while his other rests on my thigh, brushing back and forth.

The silence returns, and I press a soft kiss on the side of his lips. “I’ll miss you,” I say against his skin.

His eyes drop to my own; the grip on my leg gets tighter. As emotion builds in my chest, fervor for Jackson also starts to heat my blood. I want to be as close to him as I can tonight, emotionally, physically, in any way possible.

I look up at him, trying not to bite the inside of my lip, and try to further ignore the negative side of me that’s been in my head since I found out about his dad. Try to ignore the small sinkhole that feels like it’s getting bigger every second we get closer to tomorrow.

Jackson doesn’t say anything. He just reaches up and cups my face, his thumb brushing over my cheekbone softly. I lean down and press my lips to his, losing myself in him, in the moment that’s quiet and peaceful and safe inside his room. His arm wraps tighter around me, still underneath the sweatshirt, and my skin is on fire but not because of the heavy hoodie.

The dim light from the bedside table paints him golden in front of me. His hands grip the bottom of the sweatshirt, and his eyes flicker briefly to mine. I wiggle my brows playfully and nod, watching as amusement flashes in his eyes. Until he slowly pulls the sweatshirt off and the look in his eyes is replaced with something else.

“You’re never gonna give that back, are you?” he murmurs before his tongue swipes my lips.

I pull back, breathless. “Wasn’t planning on it. Do you want it back?”

His hands roam my back, cooler from the air hitting it, and my waist, and he pulls my bare chest against his. “No. Keep it. Keep everything.”

My heart swells, and I have a feeling we aren’t just talking about the sweatshirt, but I just kiss him, hard enough to make an impact, to make sure he remembers that I’ll be right here waiting while he’s gone. Knowing there isn’t much else I can do while he deals with everything.

I ignore the sinking feeling, ignore the doubts. I ignore anything that isn’t Jackson.

He’s going home for a reason, a good fucking reason, and I’m hoping like hell everything is okay. That his dad is okay. That his family is okay. That he is okay.

But I realize deeply and suddenly that I am terrified to lose him.

So, I focus on having him while he’s here. How he touches me like I’m something special or the way he kisses me with intent every single time. He pulls my hips down, pressing me onto him, and I feel it at the deepest part of me, and I want him everywhere.

My thoughts, my body, my heart, my life, I want him everywhere.

One hand comes up and cups my cheek, pulling me closer as our lips dance together. The swipe of his tongue on my lips sends a wave of heat to my core. His other hand brushes back and forth on the band of my lace underwear, teasing me, his fingers slipping under every few seconds before drawing back. I roll my hips over his, chasing the feeling, and I smile against his lips when he lets out a soft groan.

I lean back, my hands trailing down his chest, messing with the band of his sweatpants. When I look up, his blue eyes are dark with lust and a warmth that makes me feel whole.

“Do we need these?” I ask, and he shakes his head, one of his dimples appearing.

Slowly, I scoot back and drag his sweatpants off and toss them behind us, leaving us equally clothed, in only our underwear. His boxer briefs are tight, and just looking at the sight of him—long, lean muscled legs and a smooth stomach, up to the blond curls dancing over his forehead—lights me up.

“Come here.” He motions, and I narrow my eyes, feeling playful where I sit back at the foot of the bed.

His eyes flicker down, over my bare chest to where black lace covers the rest of me and back up. The slow perusal sets me on fire, and I’m ready to walk on the sun. Jackson sits up and moves quickly. His hand wraps around my ankle, and he pulls me forward, sliding me across the bed gently yet roughly enough for me to lose any air left in my lungs.