Read Online Jackson: A Sexy Bastard Novel by Eve Jagger - Free Book Online Page A

room to me. I like watching her move: she seems weightless, as though gravity has no power over her.
    “To strangers.” I hand her a glass, and we clink. Slowly, she takes a sip. I watch her lips on the glass, barely skimming the rim as the liquid eases down her throat.
    “Holy shit.” She raises her glass to eye level and peers at the dark amber liquid. “That is not what I was expecting.”
    I take another sip of my Old Fashioned. It tastes deep and smooth—just the way it should. I made them “Cash style,” meaning with all the usual ingredients, including top shelf whiskey, but substituting maple syrup for the sugar. It’s my favorite drink that he’s come up with, and I’ve worked hard to perfect it at my house.
    “Are you a bartender? I guess I never asked what you do.” She takes another appreciative swallow and glances around. “Although as good as this beverage is, you’d have to be the best bartender in the country to live in a place like this.”
    “And what if I am the best bartender in the country?”
    “Well, then, kudos to you!” She salutes me with her glass. “The Porsche should have been a giveaway, anyway. No guy who drives a Porsche is gonna live in squalor. That would ruin the whole point of driving a Porsche in the first place.”
    Suddenly she jumps up and peers closely at the turntable. “Does that actually work?”
    “It does.”
    “Can we play a record?”
    “Sure.” I get up from the couch to help her set it up, but she shakes her head and motions me to sit back down.
    “No no. It’s a surprise. Just stay there.”
    As I sit back on the couch, I imagine how Ryder or Cash would handle a situation like this. Ryder would bound across the room, grab the woman, and fuck her brains out, right there against the record player. Cash wouldn’t even be in this situation, because he’d have already set up the whole scene ahead of time, complete with mood music and candles. And me? Well, I know that LP collection back and forth, and there are few albums in there that say, “Let’s Fuck.” So maybe I’ve been reading this whole situation wrong. Maybe our banter was just banter.
    Suddenly, the speakers come to life and she turns toward me, eyes closed, and her entire body has begun to move in syncopation with the music. Her t-shirt is tied up to expose a smooth, flat stomach, and I watch the muscles ripple gently, hipbones shifting beneath the waistband of her skirt.
    The song is Def Leppard, Pour Some Sugar On Me. I stand corrected with the ‘let’s fuck’ choice.
    “You like?” She opens her eyes and does a little spin, which looks effortless but likely would have landed anyone else on their asses. My body aches with the need to touch her.
    “Come here.” I start to stand, but she wags her finger.
    “No way. Sit back down. I didn’t invite you up here. This is my stage now.”
    Grudgingly, I comply, fighting the magnetism that is drawing me to her. Maintaining eye contact, she lifts one leg behind her in a stretch that pushes her skirt up her thighs. I swallow. Her toes grip the carpet as she leans, raising the leg higher over her head. The farther she raises it, the farther her skirt slides up. My fingers grab the couch cushion, wanting so badly to touch that perfectly formed thigh, to feel the muscle flex.
    “I love the grittiness of vinyl, don’t you?”
    Her leg is down and now she’s moving toward me. In the background Def Leppard beckons a “Little Miss innocent.” Fucking hell. This girl is anything but innocent.
    Her body halts before me, hips gyrating, hair swaying. My hands reach for her, but she shoves me back against the couch and climbs onto my lap, pinning my hands to the cushions with her knees. I could flip her in an instant, press her back to the couch, bury my head between her legs.
    But I don’t. Instead, I remain stock still, pulse racing.
    No girl has ever taken control like this with me. It’s the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever