Read Online Jackson: A Sexy Bastard Novel by Eve Jagger - Free Book Online
Authors: Eve Jagger
Ads: Link
wants to invite me over?
“You should try all of the side dishes while the ribs cook.” I push a few of the bowls toward him, describing what each one contains.
“How do you know all of this?” he asks as he scoops a little bit of everything onto his plate.
“I like food.” I shrug. “Plus, when your income limits your dining options, you start doing your homework.” Carefully, I lift a few delicate strands of glass noodles to my lips. “By the way, your ribs are burning.”
“Shit!” He scrambles for the tongs and flips the smoking meat off of the grill. “They’ll be . . . extra crispy.”
“Ok, Grillmaster.” I reach across and help myself to three.
“I’m saving us from food poisoning,” he insists, crunching into one rib.
I bite in to find that the rib isn’t all that bad; the crunch around the fat is actually pretty delicious.
“Look, let’s be honest—this place probably hasn’t passed a health inspection in years. If ever. Overcooking isn’t the worst fucking idea.”
“Oh Jackson.” I sigh and flutter my eyes. “You are such a risk taker.”
He looks like he wants to throw something at me, but I know he won’t. It would defy his upbringing, whatever sort of silver spoon experience that was. I purse my lips and wag my finger.
“Now, now, control that temper,” I say. “How about this: I’ll let you demonstrate just how bad you are by taking a strange girl home and showing her your pool?”
“Okay. Just one problem.” He swallows the last bite on his plate. “I don’t see any strange girls here.”
“Uh, hello?” I point to myself. “Strange Girl Exhibit A, right here.”
“You’re not strange.”
Guy has a good memory, throwing my words back at me, like that.
“Oh yeah? What do you know about me?”
“I know you like tacos. I know you are good at finding phenomenal hole-in-the-wall eateries. You don’t own a car, but you do have a driver’s license. You dance in a way that makes me hard as a rock. And,” he pauses, grinning, “you make the sweetest groan I’ve ever heard when you come.”
Turnabout’s fair play, I guess, but I wish I’d stopped this conversation about thirty seconds ago, because I feel open, exposed—exactly how I don’t want to feel in front of him, or anyone. Yet my body seems to say otherwise, my pulse accelerating, thighs tensing.
Maybe I just want to fuck him. Maybe these feelings of emotion and comfortable familiarity are just flukes. And if so, why should I deny my body what it wants? You only live once.
I take a giant gulp of ice water, crunching down on the cubes that float into my mouth.
“Okay, fine. So are you going to show me your pool or not?”
“Sure, I’ll show you the pool. And maybe I’ll even show you the rest of the house. If you behave.”
“Oh believe me.” I give him my wickedest grin. “I’ll behave.”
12
Jackson
“ O h my god , Jackson, you’re a fucking old man!”
In the time it took me to make our drinks, Skylar has already circled the living room and found the corner where I keep my record collection. Granted, it’s not exactly hidden, but I have a much flashier sound system right out in the open beside my seventy-five inch flatscreen and in front of the Alexander Berdysheff painting—which, if I had to pick, is probably my most prized possession in the whole house.
And yet she bypassed all of that and went straight to where I keep the records and the antique turntable.
“Aerosmith? Ew.”
She is crouched beside the case, wiggling each LP out one at a time, reading the cover, and pushing it back in.
“Pink Floyd. Not bad. Oh fuck, the Eagles? Jackson, your music collection . . .”
I’m itching to tell her that it belonged to my dad, that it’s one of the only things I kept of his after the crash, actually, but I stop myself. We’ve only just met, and she won’t want to hear about that.
“Do you want your drink?”
“Definitely.” She pops up and comes across the
“You should try all of the side dishes while the ribs cook.” I push a few of the bowls toward him, describing what each one contains.
“How do you know all of this?” he asks as he scoops a little bit of everything onto his plate.
“I like food.” I shrug. “Plus, when your income limits your dining options, you start doing your homework.” Carefully, I lift a few delicate strands of glass noodles to my lips. “By the way, your ribs are burning.”
“Shit!” He scrambles for the tongs and flips the smoking meat off of the grill. “They’ll be . . . extra crispy.”
“Ok, Grillmaster.” I reach across and help myself to three.
“I’m saving us from food poisoning,” he insists, crunching into one rib.
I bite in to find that the rib isn’t all that bad; the crunch around the fat is actually pretty delicious.
“Look, let’s be honest—this place probably hasn’t passed a health inspection in years. If ever. Overcooking isn’t the worst fucking idea.”
“Oh Jackson.” I sigh and flutter my eyes. “You are such a risk taker.”
He looks like he wants to throw something at me, but I know he won’t. It would defy his upbringing, whatever sort of silver spoon experience that was. I purse my lips and wag my finger.
“Now, now, control that temper,” I say. “How about this: I’ll let you demonstrate just how bad you are by taking a strange girl home and showing her your pool?”
“Okay. Just one problem.” He swallows the last bite on his plate. “I don’t see any strange girls here.”
“Uh, hello?” I point to myself. “Strange Girl Exhibit A, right here.”
“You’re not strange.”
Guy has a good memory, throwing my words back at me, like that.
“Oh yeah? What do you know about me?”
“I know you like tacos. I know you are good at finding phenomenal hole-in-the-wall eateries. You don’t own a car, but you do have a driver’s license. You dance in a way that makes me hard as a rock. And,” he pauses, grinning, “you make the sweetest groan I’ve ever heard when you come.”
Turnabout’s fair play, I guess, but I wish I’d stopped this conversation about thirty seconds ago, because I feel open, exposed—exactly how I don’t want to feel in front of him, or anyone. Yet my body seems to say otherwise, my pulse accelerating, thighs tensing.
Maybe I just want to fuck him. Maybe these feelings of emotion and comfortable familiarity are just flukes. And if so, why should I deny my body what it wants? You only live once.
I take a giant gulp of ice water, crunching down on the cubes that float into my mouth.
“Okay, fine. So are you going to show me your pool or not?”
“Sure, I’ll show you the pool. And maybe I’ll even show you the rest of the house. If you behave.”
“Oh believe me.” I give him my wickedest grin. “I’ll behave.”
12
Jackson
“ O h my god , Jackson, you’re a fucking old man!”
In the time it took me to make our drinks, Skylar has already circled the living room and found the corner where I keep my record collection. Granted, it’s not exactly hidden, but I have a much flashier sound system right out in the open beside my seventy-five inch flatscreen and in front of the Alexander Berdysheff painting—which, if I had to pick, is probably my most prized possession in the whole house.
And yet she bypassed all of that and went straight to where I keep the records and the antique turntable.
“Aerosmith? Ew.”
She is crouched beside the case, wiggling each LP out one at a time, reading the cover, and pushing it back in.
“Pink Floyd. Not bad. Oh fuck, the Eagles? Jackson, your music collection . . .”
I’m itching to tell her that it belonged to my dad, that it’s one of the only things I kept of his after the crash, actually, but I stop myself. We’ve only just met, and she won’t want to hear about that.
“Do you want your drink?”
“Definitely.” She pops up and comes across the
Similar Books
