‘Jacqueline,’ I spoke low, forcing my jaw to release. ‘It’s taking everything I’ve got right now to sit here and wait for law-abiding justice to take care of this, instead of hunting him down myself and beating the f**king shit out of him. I’m not blaming you – or her. Neither of you asked for what he did – there’s no such thing as asking for it. That’s a f**king lie argued by psychopaths and dumbasses. Okay?’
She nodded, saying nothing, and I asked if he accepted her no. My temper was in danger of snapping. I felt it, twisting and stretching, striving to free itself, promising retribution and vengeance I had no right to mete out. I was just this side of containing it.
She told me her ex was with her, and he’d noticed her discomfort. She told him what happened that night. ‘He was angrier than I’ve ever seen him. He took Buck outside and talked to him, told him to stay away from me … which probably made Buck feel weak, and that’s why …’ Her words trailed off.
Jacqueline thought Buck’s resentment over Moore’s dressing-down was why he’d raped Mindi. The sad truth was, that was possible – guys like him are weaklings who act out when they feel powerless – but what Jacqueline couldn’t understand was that his actions were still no one’s fault but his.
‘What did I just say?’ I told her. ‘This is not your fault.’
I wished I could make her believe me.
Unless Francis had learned to make a fist, there was someone at my door at 1:15 in the morning. I glanced through the peephole with a baseball bat in my hand. And then I dropped the bat back into the corner, unlocking and yanking the door open.
‘Jacqueline? Why –?’ I pulled her inside and relocked the door. ‘What’s wrong?’
She stared up at me, her eyes wide and frightened, and my heart nearly quit beating.
‘I wanted to tell you that I just – I miss you,’ she blurted, her voice frantic, almost winded. ‘And maybe that sounds ridiculous – like we barely know each other, but between the emails and texts and … everything else, I felt like we did. Like we do. And I miss – I don’t know how else to say it – I miss both of you.’
The distress on her face was … because she missed me?
She shouldn’t be here. Heller was right on the other side of the yard. I’d promised him to be appropriate with her for the remainder of the semester, but the desire coiling through me was anything but appropriate. It was fire and possession, adoration and need, hunger and thirst and an impossible, unbearable hope. I couldn’t stand the thought of her leaving me for five minutes, let alone forever. I couldn’t have her, but I wanted her so, so badly.
Her bad-boy phase. Her rebound.
I felt it like a physical, internal malfunction – the split second my control snapped. When I no longer cared what I lost outside of this moment, because I couldn’t stand to lose what was right in front of me.
‘Fuck it,’ I said, shoving her to the door and caging her with my arms, prising her mouth open with mine and kissing her as if I could swallow her down and keep her from breaking me.
I pulled away long enough to strip her coat off and haul her to the sofa, to my lap, my hands behind her knees, spreading them into position on either side of my hips and tugging her to fit against me. My left hand pressing her closer, I cradled her beautiful face in my right and kissed her. I wanted to kiss her forever. Make love to her all night. Fuck her until she belonged to me and no one else, without care of consequences – and there were so many consequences to choose from.
I tossed the glasses I wore late at night, uncaring whether they hit the side table or flew across the room. I ripped off my T-shirt and then slowed to remove hers, my hands shaking with a gentleness I had to force. As I slid my hands to her sides, she huddled closer, slipped her arms round my neck and her hands into my hair. I kissed the side of her mouth, her sigh containing the softest little moan, and ducked below her chin to kiss and suck the fragile skin of her lovely throat – the origin of the passionate sounds and garbled words she uttered as her head fell back.
I paid particular attention to the singular freckle that drove me insane – it was like a tiny clue, put there for me to find – the start here on a treasure map. I lapped my tongue across it, and she pitched against me, hands gripping my hair. Fantasies exploded in my mind, too good, too perfect. I wanted her, like this – all of her.
Everything slowed.
I removed her bra, cupping her br**sts and teasing them with my fingers – light circular trails round each nipple, thumbs sweeping underneath. She leaned down to kiss me, drawing my tongue into her mouth and sweeping hers across and round it, sliding her hand from my chest to my stomach to the still-tied strings on the front of my pyjama bottoms – thin, soft flannel that couldn’t conceal what my body wanted from her.
But I’d made a promise. I’d made a promise.
My hands slid into her hair at the nape and I pressed my forehead to her shoulder, eyes closed. ‘Tell me to stop,’ I breathed.
‘I don’t want you to stop,’ she whispered, her breath in my ear, temptation incarnate.
For a suspended minute, I let her honeyed words absolve me of the promise I wanted to break, the ethics I was trashing, the heart I was letting her slice open – mine. I rolled us to our sides, unzipped her jeans and slid my fingers down and into her, curling them up and pressing as she gasped my name and gripped my arm like she’d never let go.
I could make her love me. I could be that next man for her …