Page 40 of Love Set Free

“We shouldn’t… I can’t do this, babe. I can’t.”

My hand gets dislodged from the back of his head and my fingers slide out from the silken haven of Phoenix’s dark hair as he jerks his face away from my neck. He shifts his weight to get up from lying on top of me and I can already feel the loss of his presence, even with only those few inches of space he’s created between us.

“No. Phoenix, no. I want this. Please.” My pride is a badly neglected and undernourished thing, and I’ve no problem continuing to let it wither away from lack of use. My greedy and needy hands snatch and grab at any part of Phoenix I can reach—the fabric of his shirt, his arms, his shoulders, his hips—as I try to pull him back to me. “Oh, God, Phee. Please, I want this. I promise. Anything you want of me. Anything you want to do… I want it, I swear.”

I can feel his reluctance and uncertainty in every line of his body. But I can also feel his own answering greed, as Phoenix allows me to drag his body back on top of mine. We might be roughly equal in height, but I’m no match for the strength evident in every sinew and line of Phoenix’s leanly muscled frame. There’s not a doubt in my mind that if he truly wanted to resist me, wanted to resist what all I was offering, he’d be able to yank himself free of my hold. The fact that I have him draped on top of me, bodies arranged back up head to knee as we lie on the sofa, instead of him being clear across the room, tells me that I’ve won.

My victory at getting what I want, at getting all of Phoenix’s attention and intent back on me, has me murmuring a repeat of what I’m willing to give him. “Anything, Phee. Take anything. Do anything.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Phoenix

Jesus Christ. I shouldn’t be doing this. It’s wrong. So, so wrong. Despite his words, his begging, pleading, seductive words that promise me anything I want—everything—Jackson clearly isn’t into this. Not physically, anyway.

The man’s dick isn’t even chubbed up. Not even a little.

So, there’s no way he’s turned on by what we’re doing. Not the way I am.

And yet, I can’t deny that I am turned on. So very fucking turned on. Even knowing that Jackson’s dick is limp as a wet noodle.

My stomach is still swarming with guilt and enjoyment—so much enjoyment, sooo much guilt—over essentially humping myself to a mindless orgasm against Jackson’s prone form this morning. I have no idea why I did that. There are too many people, of any gender, that are interested and eager to willingly have sex with me, that I just as eagerly took them up on, that I normally don’t turn my attention toward somebody who isn’t.

But, fuck, Jackson is… Jackson seems to be the exception to a lot of things in my life.

My conscience needles and jabs at me that Jackson’s emotions might be muddled by the bond between us, forged by trauma and the circumstances of our kidnapping and escape. He’s clearly desperate that nothing comes between the two of us; perhaps, he let me do what I did purely to keep me close to him.

Or perhaps his participation was driven by fear. My family and I are Jackson’s best bet for a fast and relatively easy return to the States. Could he be worried that he’ll be left to fend for himself unless he appeases me? I’d like to think that he knows me better than that. No matter what the nature of our relationship, even if it needs to stay strictly platonic, I’ll always take care of Jackson.

No, I have to believe that Jackson knows that. So, maybe it’s gratitude. Gratitude, that I got him out of that box. Gratitude, that I killed somebody to get us free. Gratitude, that because of me, he’s now safe, clean, and, shortly enough, on his way home.

God damn, my guilt and concern over why Jackson let me touch him, let me near him at all, is almost enough to have me jerking my way away from him again.

I can’t even allow myself the forgiving grace of knowing it had been a week since my last orgasm. Obviously, the circumstances of being fucking kidnapped hadn’t lent themselves toward arousal or horniness, but it’s not as though I haven’t gone at least as long, or even longer, between sexual encounters. So, sure I’d been a bit pent up, but that doesn’t explain the overwhelming, uncontrollableneedI’d felt for physical intimacy with Jackson.

It certainly doesn’t explain why I’m still feeling that need. Less than twelve hours since I came in my fucking pants and now…now…all I can think is that this time I want my cum splattering onto and decorating Jackson’s skin, rather than pooling uselessly inside my underwear.

I want it so badly, I’m willing to ignore the strident voice inside my head telling me that I shouldn’t. That it’s wrong of me to take advantage of Jackson.

Although…Jackson is the one who initiated our first kiss. And our second. So, maybe… Maybe I should take Jackson’s words at face value. Jackson hasn’t come right out and said that he’s straight. Although, he also hasn’t said that he isn’t. The whole thing is confusing.

“You’re sure?” I ask desperately, needing, fuckingneedinghim to say yes.

The teasing smile curving Jackson’s mouth says that he’s not confused or uncertain. Neither is the way he tangles his fingers in my hair and tugs my head down until he can nibble at my lips.

“Am I gonna have to beg?” he asks. “Actually, pretty sure I’ve been beggin’ you.”

And, Jesus. Is that… Fuck, that’s Jackson’s other hand on my ass. Urging me to press closer and tighter against him.

“Do I have to keep on beggin’ you, Phee? Didn’t take you fer bein’ so mean.”

Motherf— Fine. With nothing else to do, I opt to take Jackson at his word. I want to take Jackson at his word; it’ll give me what I want, anyway.

It’s still a little disconcerting to not feel an answering hardness when I press my own hard and aching dick against Jackson’s groin. And I’m almost tempted to delve my hand back inside his loosened pants to see if I can rouse any sort of response from him. Physical stimulation is physical stimulation, after all, right?

“Anything. Do anything at all, Phee. Take me. Take anything,” Jackson whispers against the side of my jaw before he begins pressing kisses to the hollow behind my ear.

Despite the blatantly vocalized invitation, I can’t bring myself to risk reaching for Jackson’s dick. It feels like too much to chance that I could force him to get hard. He’s saying yes now, but what if touching him where he’s soft, reminding him of his lack of physical interest, changes that yes into a no?

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