Jackson: A Sexy Bastard Novel Read Online Free PDF

face . . . you’d think he was the one getting off on this. His eyes are closed, lips slightly parted—lips I’d suck, bite, absolutely consume if I could just fucking catch my breath. Every time I think I’m getting a break, he thrusts his fingers deeper, teases my clit, and I’m a shaking, moaning mess all over again.
    I had no idea my body could do this. It’s like he’s been inside me forever, and I’m still shaking and dripping, and this goddamn skirt hiked halfway up my chest is of no help at all.
    He grabs me and pulls me closer. I grind into him, seeking that sweet ache just before I’m about to come and leaning into it, increasing the pressure, but just as I can feel my body start to tip over the edge, he draws me back, slows the insistent pace of his fingers circling my clit, and I moan in frustration.
    “Fuck me.” I reach for his lap but he pushes my hand away.
    “No.”
    “Why?” I realize I’m begging, but I can’t take this. My body feels like an electric wire, sparking, on the brink of igniting. I just want to be there, inside that swirl of oblivion. I need the nothingness to consume me. Grabbing his arm, I use my entire body weight to thrust his hand into me.
    “Jackson please don’t torture me like this,” I whisper to him. And, blessedly, my words are enough. He curls his fingers inside me, touching upon that spot of painful sweetness, applying pressure. Everything inside me explodes. The car goes black and my body explodes, then reassembles, pulsing for I have no idea how long. The next thing I know, I’m sagging against the car door, panting, suddenly acutely aware of the picture I must make: skirt hiked around my waist, legs splayed, shirt drenched in sweat. But Jackson’s eyes are trained on my face, as though he is searching for something. What is he looking for? He can see me, all of me, and I know exactly what I look like: a girl who just came, hard and fast and better than I have in months.
    I give him another moment to look, waiting for his eyes to stray, for his hands to follow, for the next phase of this process. I know this moment. This is when the guy starts unzipping his pants, laying the seats back, taking off my shirt. But Jackson isn’t doing any of that. It’s clear how ready he is; his insistent erection is clear proof that he absolutely wants to fuck me. Yet instead of reaching for me, he’s gripping the seat, searching me with those intense, hungry eyes.
    Then he leans forward. For a split second, part of me thinks he’s about to do it again, about to thrust those fingers, still wet, back inside, and my body screams yes ! But at the last moment his hand comes up over my thighs and tugs on the fabric of my skirt, gently laying it across my lap. His movements are as slow and precise as they were an instant ago, and I my thighs clench in unnecessary anticipation. When my skirt is back in place, he sits up.
    “I could watch you come like that every day of my fucking life, gorgeous.”
    His voice is gravelly, and his body says he wants to fuck; I can see it in the tension of his shoulders, the wetness of his lips. But he just put my clothes back on . Those are not the actions of someone who is trying to fuck you. They’re the actions of someone trying to hold back. It’s as though he could actually . . . actually care.
    Fuck no.
    “I—I have to go.” I yank my T-shirt away from my body—clearly an effort in futility, since the moment I move, it suctions right back against my skin. One of my sneakers has come off and is lying idly on the floor, beside my backpack. I don’t even bother putting it on; I just scoop it up along with the backpack and fumble with the handle of the door. The last thing I need is to be some Cinderella character, leaving her smelly old shoe for Prince Charming to treasure.
    “This was great. Thanks for the ride.”
    “Wait!” He reaches out and touches my back. I freeze. “You don’t live here, do you? I can drive you