And Now, Back to You — Chapter no 27

CHAPTER 27

DELILAH

“You need to relax,” I say, eyes heavy, shivering despite the four quilts piled on top of me. There’s an unrelenting boulder behind me beneath the blankets, his arm like a harness over my waist.

“I am relaxed,” Jackson grumbles, right under my ear. He’s angry, for some reason, and I’m too tired to deal with it.

“I put on the snow pants. I don’t know what you’re so mad about.”

We spent the rest of the afternoon helping Lottie out around the lodge.

Well, Jackson did. He delivered space heaters to rooms and salted the sidewalks while I talked to my new best friend Dustin—Dusty, to his friends—in the café. He had one of those portable coffeemakers that you use when camping. He made me my very own cup of coffee.

I think Jackson is still jealous over that cup of coffee.

“I’m not mad about the snow pants.”

“Then what are you mad about?”

Jackson sighs, his knees bumping up against mine. “You’re shivering.”

I turn to look at him over my shoulder. All I can make out of him is the curve of his jaw and the straight line of his nose. His glasses are folded up on the nightstand next to my emergency Swedish Fish.

Another shiver wracks my body. “I’m not trying to,” I whisper. “It’s cold, Jackson.”

The room quickly descended into cold and uncomfortable as soon as the

sun set, the massive window leeching all the warmth from the space. The portable space heater is doing its best, but it’s negative fifteen out there.

Jackson makes another low, disgruntled sound. “I know it is, Delilah.”

I huff and turn back on my side, trying to ignore that hand that feels like an ice block on my hip. He’s not even holding me.

Another furious shiver starts at my shoulders and trips down my spine until I’m shivering into the blankets, both hands curled into fists. I wish I could tuck myself into a shell and hide away until the power comes on.

Generate my own warmth.

Jackson sighs behind me and shifts his hand, ice-cold fingertips slipping under the hem of the oversized sweater he forced over my head. I squeak when he touches the bare skin of my belly, kicking my legs wildly when he presses his entire palm right above my belly button.

“What are you doing?” I whisper-hiss.

“Trying not to rupture an organ,” he grunts. “Stop kicking me.” He drags my body into his. “Be still,” he orders.

My body goes liquid and lax at the demand in his voice. Okay, I think faintly. I guess that’s a thing. I let him arrange me however he pleases, my body tucked tight to his, his arm under my sweater and his face in my neck.

“What are you doing?” I ask again, this time in a whisper.

“I can’t stand you being cold.”

“I’m not doing it on purpose, I’m—”

“That wasn’t a complaint, Delilah.” His cold nose presses against the back of my neck.

A knot tightens in my belly, even though I don’t really understand what he’s saying. Whatever it is, my body seems to get it well enough.

“Want you to be warm,” Jackson mumbles, his palm easing up and then down my belly. He settles it low, right at the waistband of my ridiculous snow pants, and everything pulls tight. “Want to be the one who makes you coffee,” he adds in a grumble.

I flop backward. Jackson’s hand shifts. “I knew you were mad about the coffee.”

He’s silent for the stretch of two heartbeats. “He didn’t even make it the way you like it.”

“Jackson. It was coffee. I wasn’t going to look the gift horse in the mouth.”

“Yeah, well, I wanted to kick the gift horse.” He grumbles some more.

“He flirted with you for the better part of a half hour.”

I grin, delighted. “He did not!”

“He did.”

“Jackson, I’m pretty sure he’s, like, sixty-eight years old. We were talking about his wife. His grandkids.”

His shoulders rise and then fall. “I didn’t know that.”

“Well, now you do.” I curl back on my side, the thrill of Jackson’s jealousy warming me from the inside out. I settle back into his grip. “You know, I read in a survival pamphlet once that skin-to-skin contact acts like a natural heating blanket.”

Jackson’s pause is long. “Why were you reading a survival pamphlet?”

His hand drifts back up, knuckles brushing beneath my breasts. I don’t know if it’s a conscious choice, but I’m acutely aware of everywhere he’s not touching me. Everywhere I want him to be.

“I like to be prepared for things,” I say, distracted, mentally willing his hand two inches higher.

“Like . . . what? What do you need to survive in Baltimore?”

“Apparently, freezing to death in a hotel room,” I laugh. I wiggle my hips back into the cradle of his and he grunts. “Take off your shirt, Jackson. It might save our lives.”

Jackson snorts. “We’re not in danger of dying in here— Shit. Delilah.”

I toss my sweater across the room, quickly followed by the T-shirt I had on underneath. I keep the snow pants on, because there’s no way that won’t be a logistical nightmare. But the room is freezing in just my pale pink cotton bra, so I quickly duck back beneath the covers, pulling them to my chin.

“Take off your shirt, Jackson,” I order again, my teeth chattering.

He’s frozen behind me, not moving an inch.

“Unless you don’t want to,” I add awkwardly. I try to swallow around the horseshoe of mortification that is lodged at the base of my throat. “In which case it probably would be for the best if we both pretend we’ve fallen into an immediate and deep sleep. A coma, maybe. Because I plan on dying of embarrassment and would like to be left to my own devices for that.”

The bed dips, fabric rustles, and Jackson lets out a bone-deep sigh. A moment later he’s back beneath the covers, his chest pressed firmly against

my back.

His bare chest. Against my bare back.

“You know exactly how to push me,” he rumbles. It’s delicious, how he sounds when he’s torn between frustrated, amused, and the dark edge of something else. Something I want to peel away like a candy wrapper.

Nibble at until it melts in my mouth.

I hide my grin in my pillow. “Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

“No,” I laugh. “I’m not.” I wiggle my body into his. “I feel warmer already.”

“Yeah?” Jackson’s palm slides over my side, chafing up and down. “How

about now?”

“Mm,” I hum. “Good.”

“And this?” His hand drifts, back to my belly, palm going up, up, up until it’s flat between my breasts. Right where my heart is pounding in my chest.

He rubs gently with his thumb. “Warmer, now?”

“Yeah,” I breathe. He noses my hair away from my neck and presses a soft kiss against the knob of my spine. I am aware of all the places we’re tucked neatly together. How my breathing slows only for my heart to beat faster. His hand shifts and his finger edges under the top of my bra, tracing the curve of my breast. My nipples tighten and I arch my back, trying to force his touch lower, but he keeps his hands perfectly, frustratingly polite.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, a low murmur right below my ear.

My body feels like it’s vibrating, twisted so tight with anticipation I might snap.

But I’m stubborn, and as much as I like pushing Jackson, I don’t think I want to push with this. I want it to be his choice. Whatever happens next.

“Delilah,” he whispers. “What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re sure?” he asks. His finger ghosts another light touch, just beneath the strap of my bra this time.

I clench my teeth so tight they click together.

“You’re messing with me,” I accuse.

I can feel his smile against the back of my neck. “Maybe.”

I turn and try to glance at him over my shoulder. All I can see of him is the curve of his ear and some rogue, messy bedhead. The very edge of his shit-eating grin.

“I don’t like this version of you,” I huff.

He laughs, his arm tightening around my waist. “Which version is that?”

“The one where you don’t follow through.”

He hums behind me and gently guides my bra strap over my shoulder.

“Did you want me to touch you, Delilah?”

“Please,” I all but beg.

A rough grunt punches out of him and he pushes his hand down, fingers flexing around the heavy curve of my breast. “That’s what I wanted,” he whispers against the delicate skin at the back of my neck. “For you to ask.”

His thumb strokes over my nipple, and a tight little whine hitches in my throat.

“Well,” I arch back, reaching behind me to thread my fingers through his hair, “maybe mention that next time.”

“Noted,” he says, still swiping lazily with his thumb. It’s a single point of intentional contact, but I swear I’ve never been more turned on in my life.

“That’s how it’s going to be with us, isn’t it?” he asks. “We’ll take care of

each other. Better than anyone else.”

I nod.

“You’re so soft,” he tells me, his hips pressing into the curve of my ass.

Rocking, once, like he can’t quite help himself. He stills with another pained grunt, hand squeezing.

“How much am I allowed to take, Delilah?” His thumb inches up and traces a delicate path along the top of my breast. “How much will you let me get away with before you start to have regrets?”

I shake my head, frantic. Every inch of me is pulsing. I want him so much. “No regrets. We promised each other.”

He peels the cup of my bra away, tucking it beneath my breast. I try to help, to slip my arm out of the strap, but Jackson stills me with his other hand at my hip.

“No,” he says. “Leave it. Like this, you look—” He has his chin hooked over my shoulder, staring down at the shadows of my curves beneath the blanket. I notice the glint of black just above his ear. The only part of him I

can see clearly.

“You put your glasses back on.”

He nods. “I want to be able to see you.”

He repeats the same methodical process on the other side of my bra, my bare breast spilling free, held up by the material underneath. Jackson lets out a slow exhale. Another rock of his hips against my ass.

“Look at you,” he says. He cups my breasts with both hands, thumbs

rubbing over my nipples. We’ve hardly done anything and I already feel electric. Like I’m dancing along the edge of a live wire, each spark connected to Jackson’s fingertips. He rubs another slow circle. Again and again until I’m making bitten-off noises. He buries his face in my neck,

teeth bared against my skin.

“Fuck. Delilah. I don’t know if—”

“I’m going to need more than this,” I beg, body rolling, chasing the maddening friction. It’s too slow. Too intentional. There’s a hollow heat between my legs and no friction. I need more. “You don’t have to worry, okay? Whatever it is that’s holding you back, stop. You’re safe with me, Jackson. I promise, I promise, I pro—”

He rolls me over until I’m pinned with my belly against the mattress, his big body pushing down against my back. One hand sinks into my hair and pulls my head back while the other thrusts into my absolutely ridiculous pants.

“You can’t say things like that to me, Delilah.”

I wiggle in his hold, trying to spread my legs to give him more room.

“Why not?”

He swipes his fingers across the front of my underwear, groaning when he feels how wet it is. “Because I’ll want to keep you,” he mutters.

“Good,” I groan, my fingers fisting in the sheets. “I want you to keep me.”

I don’t even feel the cold anymore. Just Jackson at my back and flannel against my front, my nipples rubbing against the material with every shift of my body.

“Stop talking,” he grunts as his fingers clumsily tuck my underwear against my thigh, the material of my snow pants making it awkward. But Jackson perseveres, his thumb rubbing short, hard circles at the very top of my clit. “You’re driving me crazy.”

I bite down on the edge of the pillow with a little whine, hips rocking, chasing the friction he’s giving me. I can barely move at all with the way he’s holding me down, and that’s another rush of liquid heat, right where he’s stroking just a shade too rough. His thumb keeps catching against me and my breath hiccups every time, a filthy and indecent soundtrack in the otherwise silent room.

“The way you sound,” he grinds out, yanking at my pants, trying to see more of me. He’s impatient now. Just as impatient as I am. Finally. With his

hand pinned between me and the bed, it’s the perfect angle for me to work my hips. He lets me rock against his fingers and it’s exactly what I need.

Messy and delicious. Rough. Perfect.

“The way you look. Christ, Delilah. You’d let me do whatever I want,

wouldn’t you?”

I nod into the pillow. “I trust you.”

“Good,” he breathes, and then he shifts his hand. The pressure, the angle, the slow glide of two fingers inside of me . . . I press one knee up on the bed and chase it. How quickly we went from bare skin to this.

Flecks of gold dance at the edge of my vision. My face is half buried in the pillow, half turned toward Jackson, just the line of his shoulder visible, bunched with tension as he works me over. The pleasure is so sharp I almost don’t want it. But I lie there and let Jackson take exactly what he wants from my body. I let it build. I take it. I take it and I revel in it.

“So good.” He leans more of his weight against me, the hand in my hair planted flat against the bed. I turn my head and sink my teeth into his wrist, grinning when he hisses. “Delilah.” A sharp roll of his hand as punishment.

“Don’t push me.”

I laugh, breathy and high. “But look what happens when I do.”

His attention between my legs focuses, slows—heavy, thorough thrusts of his hand that shove me over the edge before I can find anything to hold on to. I free-fall into orgasm with my forehead pressed against his wrist, my lips pressed together, a sharp breath through my nose. I feel like a feather in gale-force winds; tossed up, up, up before the winds cut out and I drift lazily down.

I sink into the mattress, a boneless puddle. I am suffused with heat. Sweat at my temples and between my bare breasts. Deliciously warm.

But I want more. I want to see him unravel too.

I prop myself up on my elbows and glance over my shoulder, Jackson still above me with his knees on either side of my hips. I’m caged in, but protected, his body a shelter over mine.

It’s the first time I’ve gotten a good look at everything those button- downs have been teasing at. Jackson’s body is lean but strong. A wide chest and narrow hips. Strong arms with solid muscles that flex and release as he twists his hands in the bedsheets.

I reach back and touch his bare hip. Right where his sweatpants are pulled low. He shies away from my touch, chest heaving.

“I don’t know if I can—” His head drops back, his face toward the ceiling, eyes pinched closed. I watch the line of his throat flex with his heavy swallow. “I don’t know if I can, Delilah.”

“It’s okay to take something for yourself,” I whisper.

His jaw clenches. “I don’t know.”

“You do.” I curl my hand around his hip, tracing the cut of muscle there with my thumbnail. He shivers. “I know you do. And it’s okay. You can have it.”

I watch his face change in the muted shadows. How his eyes grow heavy with want. The peek of his tongue at the corner of his mouth. His hand rubs at the middle of his bare chest, like he’s trying to push away whatever is happening inside of him.

But I want to be the one who does that for him. I want to ease that ache.

“You can have it,” I say again. “Whatever it is you want . . . I want it too.

I promise.”

His hand inches down his chest toward the hem of his sweatpants. I bet he runs every morning. Or swims, maybe. Something that requires dedication and routine. Something where he can keep pace.

“Are you sure?” he asks, and his hand sinks into his pants. He grips himself with a shuddered breath, his head rolling back along his shoulders.

His forearm flexes as he moves and he tips his head forward again so he can watch me while he touches himself.

He looks so good like this, on his knees above me. His hair an absolute mess and his glasses slightly crooked.

“Yes,” I breathe. I turn beneath him, my hands at his sweatpants, urging them down. “But let me see.”

He’s gripping himself so hard it looks like it hurts, but his breath comes faster as I inch his pants down his thighs.

“Oh,” I whisper.

His eyebrows pull together. “What?” he pants.

“Nothing.” I shake my head, then catch my bottom lip between my teeth.

“You’re just—you look good.” The smooth, practiced roll of his hand around his thick cock. How he rubs at himself with the two fingers that are still wet from being inside of me. “What do you want me to do?”

Jackson groans and laughs at the same time. “You don’t have to do anything, Delilah.” His eyes grow serious again, pleasure making his mouth twist. “Just let me look at you,” he says.

But I want him to be selfish. I want to make him as mindless as he’s made me. So I let myself fall back into the pillows, my arms above my head. My bra is still twisted around my middle, pushing everything up, my breasts spilling obscenely over the material. I drift my fingertips over them, moaning lightly when a soft bloom of warmth unfurls in my belly. I won’t come again tonight, but I bet I could. Just from watching Jackson like this.

He lets his body curl over mine with a heavy groan, one hand braced against the headboard over my shoulder. The wood creaks as his other hand picks up speed, his knuckles brushing my stomach with every rough stroke.

I lean up and press my mouth to the hollow of his throat.

“On me,” I whisper, and he grunts. I drift my fingers between my breasts.

Lower, down over the curve of my belly. “It’s what you want, isn’t it?”

He nods, his temple pressed to mine. He feels feverish. So warm and

solid above me.

“Yes,” he breathes.

“I want it too.” I press my palms to his sides. “Won’t you give me what I want, Jackson?”

“Fuck,” he whispers and his hand slows down. I feel the blunt press of his thick length against my belly and the smooth, easy friction of Jackson moving against me. Fucking me down into the mattress without fucking me at all. He murmurs nonsense as he chases his relief and I sink my hands into his hair, holding him tight.

When he finally comes, it’s with his teeth bared against the side of my neck, his release warm against my belly. He falls to my side with a huff, his palm flat against the middle of my chest.

We stay there like that, tangled together, our hearts thundering. It isn’t until I shiver again that Jackson leverages himself up on one hand. I watch as he takes careful inventory. My eyes, the curve of my chin. My bare

breasts and the mess he’s made of me.

His gaze stays there for a while.

“Feel warmer?” I whisper.

“I don’t know.” Satisfaction hitches one side of his mouth up in a lazy grin. “I can’t really feel my legs, to be honest.”

A loud laugh bursts out of me. Jackson’s grin grows. He pulls his sweatpants back over himself, bashful, but makes no move to clean up the mess across my middle. I bite my lip at the way he keeps staring at it—at me.

He walks his fingers over my shoulders, carefully fixing my bra. His hands brush against me while he does and that little kernel of warmth that’s heavy in my belly thrums wildly. I make a soft sound and Jackson gives me

a chastising look.

“Bedtime, troublemaker.”

“Trouble? Me?”

“We’ll be warmer skin to skin,” he mimics, voice feigned in some approximation of mine. It makes me laugh again and he rolls his eyes to the ceiling, slipping from the bed. For a second I’m disappointed, but then I hear the sink in the bathroom. Jackson comes back to me with a wet washcloth, brushing my hands away when I try to take it. He eases it over my belly in gentle swipes, cleaning me off so carefully it makes a lump lodge in my throat. I watch him, curved over me, bare skin and his hair sticking up at odd angles, some pink still clinging to the base of his throat.

Something tender and delicate unfurls beneath my rib cage the longer I

watch him touch me—so, so gently.

I shiver, and his eyes find mine.

“Cold?”

I nod, even though that feels like a half-truth.

He bundles me back beneath the quilts with quick, efficient movements. I grab his arm before he can hesitate, dragging him into my little cocoon with me. I lie there like a lump while he rearranges pillows and situates blankets, then hum happily when he curls himself against my back. His arm is a delicious, heavy weight over my hip. Maybe, still, a little bit like a harness.

But one that keeps me safe.

“Better?” he asks.

I smile into my pillow that smells like him. “Much.”

SIMONE LEEDS: Tonight’s broadcast out in the mountains has been canceled due to a power outage.

SIMONE LEEDS: But we’ll check back in with Jackson and Delilah soon.

SIMONE LEEDS: If you’re anything like us, you’re eager for an update.