Page 57 of Burn With Me

P-Kitty greets me as soon as the doors ping open, just like a dog greets its owner. He’s sitting pretty and patiently waiting for head scratches, stretching his neck as if to show me the collar Jackson was finally able to put on him. It looks like a bow tie and is lined, ‘so it doesn’t rub against his skin and cause more hair loss.’

“Hi there, pretty kitty. You got yourself a good daddy, don’t you?” Picking him up after I set my bag on the counter and remove my boots, I snuggle my face against his patchy fur and sigh.

As I walk further into the penthouse, the dim sound of voices drifts down the hall, coming from the game room. Curious, I set the cat down and watch as he pads to the room, pushing his way through the crack in the door.

“Jackson?” I call out, but there’s no answer.

Pushing the door wide when I reach it, I’m surprised to find a movie playing on the giant screen on the wall—a rom-com featuring the actors that play Fat Amy and Bumper fromPitch Perfect.

Stepping into the room quietly, I whisper, “Jackson?”

Peeking over the back of the couch, I find him curled upon his side, face toward the back cushion as he dozes. He’s dressed in a pair of black sweats and a plain white shirt, smelling of smokey scotch and something that is utterlyhim.

That musky scent a man has that only belongs to him—not the gross body odor kind, but the kind that makes your toes curl and your lower body tighten with want. I reach over the cushion to brush the hair out of his eyes, mine straying to where his phone is lying further down the couch as it lights up.

P-Kitty jumps up on the couch, immediately going to curl against Jackson’s neck, setting his head in the space between his chin and shoulder. Comforting the best way he knows how.

Jackson’s phone lights up again, so I round the couch to see who it is. There’s a missed call from Scott and two from Tripp. A text from Stacey asking how he’s doing, and one from someone named Viki that says ‘thinking of you today’ with a crying face and a heart.

Who the fuck is this?

Beneath all of those are my crazy messages, and if there were a way to unlock his phone and delete them, I would. While at it, I’d delete hers too.

Okay, Gin. Now you’re really starting to go crazy.

Jackson shifts, his hand reaching up to scratch the cat on the head as he carefully turns so as not to scare him. His eyes find mine as he pulls the cat into his chest and curls his other arm under his head. “What a nice surprise to wake up to. Am I dreaming? Or did I die? Because I’m pretty sure I went to bed alone, and here my angel is to save me.”

He’s slurring his words, obviously still drunk. Eyes heavy and half-lidded as he reaches out for me. “C’mere, angel.”

Shaking my head, I sit at the far end of the couch and tuck my leg underneath me. “How are you?”

His hand drops, startling the cat, who jumps up and dashes off. “No! P-Kitty, come back! I’m sorry I didn’t meanto scare you, buddy.” His eyes sway to me with a scowl. “You’re no angel. I forgot you have horns, not a halo.”

I can’t help the giggle that erupts from my throat. “Oh? I’m the devil now, am I?”

“You’re a fucking little dream minx is what you are. Are you here to suck my dick? BecauserealGinny wouldnever.” He rolls to his back and drapes his arm dramatically over his eyes.

“All I think about day and night is real Ginny taking my cock between those sweet, sweet lips of hers. But noooooo, she’s a taker. Not a giver. And you know what, little dream minx?” He peeks at me from beneath his arm, words running together as his pitch switches from high to low.

“What’s that?” I bite back a laugh as I ask. There’s a slight ache between my thighs at his words, but the fact that he’s drunk acts as a dam, holding the pleasure back.

“I’m okay with it.” He shrugs, flopping his arm out to his side with a big sigh. “I’ve never been a giver. Always a taker. Now she’s serving me my own shit on a platter, and I can’t get enough.”

“Do you plan on telling real Ginny this?” Playing with the frayed end of the scarf that’s still wrapped around my neck, I smile to myself at his candor. Turns out Jackson is a funny drunk—a far cry from the serious, calculated man he’s used to showing everyone else.

I wonder how many people have seen this side of him?

He giggles.Giggles.“Noooo.”

“Why not?” I press, curious to hear his answer.

Jackknifing to a sitting position, he doesn’t reply, climbing off the couch with all the grace of a toddler and swaying on his feet when he stands. Jumping to help him so he doesn’t fall over, I lead him from the room and further down the hall, where there’s a bathroom. There’s no way in hell I’ll be able to get him up the stairs, and I’m hoping a lukewarm shower and some coffee will sober him up.

“You smell nice, dream minx.” He takes a whiff of my hair.

“Thank you.” Because what else am I supposed to say?

It crosses my mind that in order for him to shower, I’m going to have to undress him. While I feel that he wouldn’t mind in the least bit once he’s no longer drunk, part of me doesn’t feel right about doing so without his non-intoxicated consent.

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