Page 60 of Body Check

On my back, sprawled across the hood of a car.

Exposed to the dark, to my ex-husband.

Limbs shuddering and shaking.

Jackson follows a heartbeat later, elbows on either side of my face, hips churning fast and uneven as he erupts with his own orgasm, and—

“Shit, sweetheart,” he breathes roughly into my hairline, “holy shit.”

My head falls back, lax. Lungs heaving, I manage to work out, “Good news.”

“Yeah?”

“You didn’t need me to put the condom on you this time. A-plus work, Captain.”

He laughs low at that, lifting his head far enough to press a soft kiss to my cheek. Another to the corner of my mouth. One last one over my lips, tugging gently on my lower lip before he mutters, “I’m gonna be honest with you. I’m tryin’ real hard to think of something witty to say back to that, but all I’ve got is . . . how do you feel about pancakes?”

20

Holly

Jackson takes me to a hole-in-the-wall diner across from Boston’s South Station, and when he said pancakes . . . he really meant pancakes.

I blanch when the waitress sets down a stack in front of me.

They’ve got to be the size of my face, at least.

And that’s saying nothing about the size of Jackson’s late-night dinner: a stack of blueberry pancakes, three eggs done over easy, wheat toast slathered with butter, a bowl of fruit, and a side of bacon.

Eyes bulging at the amount of food that’s covering the small table, I delicately unwrap the silverware from its paper napkin binding and clutch my fork and knife in opposite hands, caveman-style.

“You should be glad you got me naked before this feast. You’re going to have to roll me out of here.”

Jackson takes a pull of his milk, then winks at me. “I have complete faith in you.”

“Sure, maybeyoudo but my jeans are already crying out for help.”

“So pop the button,” he tells me with a nonchalant shrug before tossing a grape into his mouth like some sort of Greek god reclining on a chaise lounge.

Except, instead of a chaise lounge, we’re currently seated on red plastic cushions that look like they haven’t been updated since the seventies.

“I’m sonotpopping the button.” I cut my first sliver of the pancake, reach for the syrup bottle, and completely drown my plate with it. If my pancakes aren’t begging for air, then the syrup hasn’t done its job—morbid, sure, but totally necessary in my book. I kick my chin in the direction of his plates. “Are you sure you won’t be regretting all that food tomorrow when you play against Buffalo? Or, you know . . .” I swallow the bite of pancake and subsequently swallow a moan. God, that isdelicious.Dingy-looking diners never fail to do my taste buds right. Wiping my chin with my napkin, I continue, “. . . regret staying up so late tonight?”

Jackson’s dark eyes rove over my face, seeking, probing, and I feel my cheeks heat under his acute scrutiny. Finally, he murmurs, “There wasn’t a shot in hell that I was about to go to bed without talking about what happened tonight.” He pauses, full lips turning up. “You defiled my virgin car.”

My jaw drops open unceremoniously. “Defiled your virgin—” Breaking off, I cough into my fist so as not to give him the satisfaction of combusting with laughter. But the coughing does nothing to hide my growing grin. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“No kidding here.” He holds up his big hands, a slice of crispy bacon thrusting upward with his right hand. “You didn’t hear it protesting when I stripped you naked?Oh no!it screamed.My eyes—they burn!”

Oh, God. Trust Jackson to turn on the charm-o-meter when we’re in public.

For that comment, I steal his bacon.

Leaning over the laminate table, I pluck the crispy deliciousness out of his hand, secretly delighting in the way his brows shoot up at my boldness.

Take that, Captain.

“First,” I say, around a mouthful of bacon, “I washalf-naked.”

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