Page 70 of Sweet Like Whiskey

Jackson untucks his face from my neck, blinking his eyes slowly. “Yeah? And what’s that smell like?”

Home.

The thought is immediate. Strong. But I don’t voice it, unsure if Jackson would even believe me.

“Horses,” I answer instead.

He stares at me for the longest beat before his lips twitch. He looks relaxed. Carefree. If a good fuck is all he needs to unwind now and again, I’d be happy to oblige.More than happy.

Jackson shakes his head, muttering, “Impossible man,” as he leans back. The fondness in his voice makes it difficult to mourn the loss of his cock as he pulls out of me. But even still, I wince slightly, the sudden cold and lack of fullness my least favorite part about anal. Jackson seems to realize. He adds a soft, “Sorry,” placing a kiss on my bent knee as he sits back to dispose of the condom.

“You could always make it up to me,” I say, intending to follow up my comment with a joke about kissing it better. But as I lower my arms from their position above my head, I groan instead.Son of a bitch.

“All right?” Jackson asks, concern in his eyes.

“Yep,” I eke out, my voice tight.And my shoulders. Goddamn it.

“You are not,” he says, all but huffing the words.

“Just need a minute,” I say, laying my arms out to my sides and waiting for the spasms to stop.

Jackson grunts, getting off the bed and walking into the hall. A minute later, he returns with a hand towel.

“I’m probably going to need a shower,” I point out. “But thanks, I—”

“Turn over,” Jackson says gruffly.

I blink at him. “What now?”

“Turn. Over,” he repeats.

Not sure what his intention is, I ease up, wincing again, and flip onto my stomach. Jackson climbs up over my legs, and thensomething hot is being set across my shoulder blades. The cloth, I realize.

“All right?” he asks, his hands smoothing over the fabric.

“Yeah,” I answer weakly.

He grunts, pressing down. His fingers start working the muscles on either side of my spine, and I groan again, the pressure and aching pain exquisite. It’s thegoodkind of hurting. The kind that means relief.

My muscles start to relax as Jackson kneads them into submission. When the cloth turns cool, he removes it, continuing to run his hands over my upper back and shoulders. It’s so divine I don’t ask him to stop.

“A good memory from your childhood?” he asks.

It takes me a minute to understand he’s tossing me a get-to-know-you question like I did earlier to him. I hum, letting myself melt into the mattress.

“When I was eleven,” I tell him, “my mom took me sailing. My grandpa had a boat, and, before he passed, we’d go out with him sometimes. But that day, it was just me and my mom. I don’t remember everything, but I remember a few details. My mom’s blue-and-white boat shoes. Her laughing as we caught a particularly high wake, the boat rocking as if we were far out at sea. I remember the little tuna sandwiches she made us, cut into perfect squares.”

I ease out a breath, which turns into another groan as Jackson’s thumb presses into a particularly sensitive spot near my neck. He massages there gently.

“That was the day I told my mom I had a crush on Mason from homeroom.” The memory has a smile tugging at my lips. “She said, ‘Oh, yeah? Tell me about him.’ It was so…easy. I had just come out, and she made it easy.”

Jackson kisses my shoulder, his scruff tickling my skin. “You love her.”

“I do,” I say on a sigh. “We butt heads sometimes, but my mom has always been there for me. I remind myself of that when her concern turns a little overbearing.”

He hums, as if he gets it. I’m sure he does. “I came out when I was nine.”

“Yeah?”

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