CHAPTER 77

west

T he minute we walked through the door, I curled a hand in his hair and dragged his mouth to mine. Jackson responded in kind—matching my burst of enthusiasm. An arm snaked around my waist and he pushed me back against the door. A flash of panic shot through me. I forced myself to breathe, inhaling the spice of his cologne and letting it fill me.

This was Jackson.

Jackson was good.

Jackson wouldn’t hurt me.

I was okay.

“You still with me, West?” Jackson whispered against my lips. Fuck, I didn’t realize I’d locked up.

I nodded and kissed him again, welcoming the taste of his tongue across mine. His hands wandered my body as we kissed against the door, practically burning a hole through my clothes. I was drowning in him. His taste, his scent, his touch. My head spun, and my heart hammered against my ribcage.

Jackson’s teeth scraped along my jaw and his mouth drifted down my neck in soft kisses. My head tipped back against the wall.

“May I?” His fingers skated up the buttons of my shirt.

“Jackson,” I growled, “if you keep asking me shit like that, I’m going to lose my temper. I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t fucking want to.”

Though I understood why he did too. Fuck, it was all a fucking mess.

“Okay.” He kissed me, harder and more demanding. I moaned at the way his hips rolled against mine—the sensation driving me insane. My cock ached behind the zipper of my jeans. And with every button on my shirt he undid, my frenzied need only grew.

When his fingers grazed over the scars on my side, the twinge of pain yanked me out of the moment. I grabbed his wrist to stop him. My mouth hovered over his as I tried to catch my breath—tried to ground myself. I was okay.

“Do they hurt?” Jackson asked softly.

“Sometimes,” I admitted, ashamed to even say it out loud. I hated them. Hated what they constantly reminded me of. “I don’t know if it’s real or not but yeah.”

“Okay. I won’t touch them.” He said the words so fucking simply that it did something to me. I damn near lurched forward to kiss him again, desperate to kiss him and silently tell him all the things I couldn’t get my brain to let me say. Wrapping an arm around his waist, I pulled his body flush to mine. His warmth and hard edges were welcome.

“Upstairs, cowboy,” I whispered breathlessly as I broke the kiss.

How the hell we managed to make our way up the stairs and to his room was beyond me. It was a stumbling dance of tearing off clothes, quiet swearing, and one broken lamp. With every kiss, every touch, Jackson grew more intense and confident. I let him take the lead—needing some kind of direction. The brief conversation about my scars had my brain retreating. I didn’t want to go where it was going and did my best to stay grounded.

When he turned away from me, I dragged his back to my chest. I kissed the line of his neck and nipped at his ear. His fingers curled in my hair while my hand skated down the strong lines of his abs. Wrapping my hand around his cock, I stroked him steadily to rile him up more.

“ Fuck ,” Jackson breathed out. His body pushed back against mine. I ran the pad of my thumb over his slit, gathering the pre-cum there and bringing it to my mouth. The salty taste of him was grounding, giving me something to cling to—to keep me here with him instead of floating away. He groaned, “Jesus fuck, baby.”

”On your stomach, cowboy,” I ordered gruffly and walked him toward the edge of the bed. He dropped, and I went with him.

I crawled over his body, kissing my way up his spine. The little shudder that ran through him wasn’t lost on me. I took my time pressing kisses up and down his spine a second time, liking the little things I could do to him. I still didn’t know what the fuck I was doing. Every time we ended up in this position I felt equally lost.

But making Jackson feel good? That I was determined to figure out. It was the only thing I didn’t want to fuck up.

I smiled slightly against the curve of his shoulder as he floundered to grab the lube, missing twice when I nipped at a spot guaranteed to drive him wild.

“I know what the fuck you’re doing,” he grumbled, and my smirk widened.

“I don’t have a fucking clue what you’re talking about.” I sank my teeth in his favorite spot at the base of his neck, and he almost dropped the bottle to the floor. As I grabbed it from him, I teased, “Careful, cowboy.”

He made a sound that dissolved into a groan as I swiped lube over his asshole and slid one finger inside him. I didn’t have the patience to prep him the way I probably should’ve, but from the way he pushed back against me, he didn’t either.

Instead, I coated my dick and slowly pressed the crown past that tight ring of muscles.

“ Fuck ,” Jackson let out with a loud moan, his forehead falling to the bed. My fingers dug into his hip as I took my time working my cock in and out of him, venturing a little deeper each time.

The intensity and pressure knocked the air out of my lungs. I paused, trying to gain my bearings. He was so goddamn tight and hot around my cock. Jackson’s hand found mine, his fingers weaving through mine as if for reassurance. Or maybe he just needed it as much as I did.

Kissing the side of his neck, I thrust into him until I was buried to the hilt inside him. His moan echoed mine, and I focused on making him feel good. My pace picked up, and his body moved under mine, matching every drive of my hips.

Sweat cooled my skin, my breaths grew ragged, and my heart pounded violently in my ears. Jackson grew louder and more demanding underneath me. From the sounds he made, he was getting there without me ever touching him.

But I struggled to keep up with him. Every thrust did nothing for me—no matter how hard I focused. I couldn’t get my head in the moment. Couldn’t get my body to cooperate. It felt good but it didn’t at the same time. More than anything, I felt trapped. But I kept going—kept trying—until my dick quit on me, softening slowly.

“Fuck…” I let out pathetically. My head fell between his shoulder blades as I pulled out. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be—”

“I am,” I reiterated a little too quickly.

“West.” Jackson shifted underneath me, rolling so he could see me. He pulled my mouth to his, cradling my face with more gentleness than I deserved.

“But you didn’t—”

“I don’t care,” he interrupted once more and kissed the tip of my nose. How was he not the most sexually frustrated man on the planet with a broken guy like me as his partner? I was so fucking broken and useless. I kept telling myself I could do these things, but I couldn’t. And it fucking killed me. “I care about you, West. Your comfort. Your safety. Your happiness.”

“Jackson…”

“You’re my priority, baby, above anything else.”

My heart cracked wide open with those words—such simple fucking words that probably didn’t mean much to anyone else. At that moment I knew: I still loved him. I had never stopped loving him. I’d just buried the feelings somewhere deep inside me where I never had to face them again.

But I couldn’t bring myself to say the words out loud. What the fuck was wrong with me?

I settled on his chest, pressing my ear over his heart. The sound of his heartbeat was comforting in ways I didn’t know how to explain. I was painfully aware of how hard his dick was as it pressed against my torso and did my best not to focus on it—a fucking miserable task .

Jackson’s palms rubbed along my upper arms and back. The sensation was painful along my skin, prickling along my every nerve.

“Don’t rub,” I whispered. His hands stilled, and the fucking guilt for even bringing it up was immediate. Under my breath, I added, “Sorry.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Sometimes,” I admitted. “Sometimes it just makes my skin… uncomfortable.”

It felt weird talking about it. I never talked about it. I didn’t understand it and didn’t expect other people to either. All I knew was that I was a fucking mess. That was no one’s problem but mine.

“What does it feel like?” Jackson asked softly. “When you’re touched.”

My chest tightened. No one had ever cared to ask that question. I swallowed hard as I tried to think of a way to describe so he could understand.

“Most of the time it’s just uncomfortable. Like pins and needles uncomfortable,” I attempted to explain, feeling ridiculously pathetic even as the words fell out of me. “When it’s bad… it feels like taking fucking razors to my skin. Just… cutting into my nerves over and over. My clothes hurt. The air hurts. Everything fucking hurts, and I’m just… stuck with it until it goes away.”

“That sounds horrible.” That was the understatement of the fucking century. I hated how out of control just the existence of my own skin was. “Does this hurt right now?”

“Not really,” I said. My skin was uncomfortable—hot and sticky from sweat, tingling and feeling off, but it wasn’t horrible. I’d gone through worse.

“West.”

“I don’t want to fucking move,” I told him gruffly. For as uncomfortable as my skin was, I liked listening to Jackson’s heartbeat more. That made up for everything.

“Okay,” he replied. “How can I touch you?”

“I don’t know.” I didn’t have a fucking answer for that. I’d always been so adamant about not being touched—not letting people get close to me. Jackson was an anomaly. An experiment. He was something I never expected. “No rubbing.”

“No rubbing, got it,” Jackson confirmed. His arms wrapped around my shoulders, holding me tight to him. “Is this okay? ”

The continuous questions grated against my nerves, but I said nothing. I knew why he wanted to know—why it was important to him. I just hated how fucking pathetic I had to sound out loud. It was like the man needed a goddamn instruction manual just to touch me.

He could be with any other guy and not have to deal with this shit. I struggled to understand why this was what he wanted. Why he wanted me.

“Yeah, I like that,” I whispered because it was the truth. I liked the warmth and tightness of his arms. I liked the little good things with Jackson, and I wasn’t sure how the hell I was supposed to do months without him.

Or the rest of my fucking life for that matter.