Oh, god.
A tremor of fear runs through me, because I am suddenly struck with just how real that possibility is. And I can’t escape the overbearing reality that no matter how much I love Jackson—how much I adore his little girl—I have no idea how to raise a child. My mother has treated me as a zero ever since my brother became ill. And my father—oh, god, I can’t even think about my father.
I shudder, then stumble back to bedroom, my stomach in knots. I lurch into the bathroom and kneel in front of the toilet, certain that I’m going to throw up. I don’t. But I clutch the porcelain until I feel steady enough to stand.
I meant what I said at the airport—I do want to be there for Jackson, and I am humbled that he would trust me with his daughter.
But this?
Oh, god, this?
I stand, then force myself to breathe deep and tell myself that it isn’t going to happen. Jackson didn’t kill Reed. He’s not going to be arrested. He’s not going to prison.
Ronnie will be in our life, yes, and that’s great. I can do this with Jackson at my side. I can handle being a mom so long as he’s holding my hand.
I tell myself that again and again, then realize that even as I have been lecturing myself, I have been inching my T-shirt up so that I can once again see my tattoos in the mirror. Only this time, I’m not thinking about the battles that each one represents. Instead, I’m thinking about a new battle. I’m thinking that, if I’m going to manage this, I need the ink that marks the child.
I close my eyes, hating that I am so weak when Jackson needs me to be strong.
When I open them again, I see Jackson’s reflection in the mirror; he is standing right behind me.
“I thought you were asleep,” he says.
“I just woke up.” My voice sounds guilty to my ears, and I have to fight the urge to cringe.
His brow furrows a bit, and I know that he is worried that the nightmares came for me, prompted by Ethan’s confession. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say. “No nightmares last night. You vanquished them all,” I say truthfully. What Reed did—what my father did—will always haunt me. And my father’s confession to Ethan about the whole sordid business only adds another layer of shadows to the nightmares I already fight. But Jackson has convinced me that I can fight them.
I lift a shoulder then, the motion minuscule. “It’s just that I woke up without you. I didn’t like it.”
I don’t know what he sees when he looks at my face, but whatever it is, it’s enough. He reaches for my hips, then tugs me to him, then presses his lips to mine. The kiss is soft, yet powerful. Deep, yet tender. I melt against him, all of my fears, my doubts, my angst swept away in a sensual fog, no match for the power that is Jackson.
The kiss is long and lingering, and with each passing second, my passion rises, my senses firing. My breasts rub against him, the sensation sending curls of pleasure swirling through me.
“It’s morning,” he murmurs as he pulls away. “We need to get to the boat and head to the island.”
“Not just yet. Please,” I say, that one word holding all my fears and insecurities. “Please, at least for a little while, just hold me.”
He searches my face, then silently leads me to bed. He strips off his jeans and shirt, then slides under the covers beside me, tucking me in against him so that my ass is snug against his semi-erect cock.
I want more—hell, I need more. I need his touch to soothe and center me. But as far as I know, Jackson has been up all night and I don’t want to demand when he’s tired. More than that, I want to be able to stand on my own, because I’m terribly afraid that there will come a time when Jackson won’t be beside me to battle away my fears.
So I close my eyes, trying to be strong. Trying to simply enjoy the feel of his arms around me.
Jackson, thank god, has other plans.
Lightly, so that I almost do not even recognize the contact, he begins to stroke my thigh, making me squirm.
A thread of sensual heat curls through me, and I shift, parting my legs slightly so that he has better access. As I’d hoped, he takes full advantage, his hand easing down along the juncture of my thigh and torso, then to my pelvis, and then finding the nub of my clit. I gasp, drawing in a stuttering breath as he makes his fingers into a V and slides along my now-slick labia but avoids the touch that I am desperately craving.
“Jackson,” I murmur. My hips are moving in their own rhythm now, trying to direct his hand, his touch. But Jackson foils me, and the release that my now-primed body seeks is just out of reach.
Frustrated, I press my rear back against his cock, then close my eyes in satisfaction at his low, masculine groan of pleasure. Then his mouth brushes my shoulder, and his low, sultry words are sending ripples through me. “I need to fuck you, baby. Like this. Right now.”