Page 59 of Beneath the Hood

With Sierra, what you see is what you get, and that’s how she views the world.

She doesn’t skin me until I bleed, digging up buried secrets like lost treasure. Instead, she adds sparkle and shine as camouflage, keeping the other facets hidden.

Jackson is the first one to come along and search for every angle.

* * *

The next fewweeks pass before I can blink, Jackson and I falling seamlessly into a new routine.

Time with him moves differently. Faster. And although he’s slotting into place, like he was always meant to be here, it leaves less time for other things. Things Ican’tjust stop. Like working. Or exercise.

My regime is now relegated to late nights and early mornings, sleep being pushed down the rung until it’s rare to get more than one or two hours. I’m used to surviving the deprivation, but I can feel my body starting to crumble, my mind desperate for some rest.

The only time I escape the exhaustion is when I’m with Jackson, each moment rife with a heady connection. It strums through the air and vibrates every single part of me, weaving into my heart and making warmth flare between my legs.

There’s just one problem. He won’ttouchme.

At least not the way I want. There’s been a few heated moments, and I’ve memorized the outline of his lips, but there’s something holding him back from taking it any further and my need is so thick I can taste it on my tongue.

As I lay in bed, trying—and failing—to fall asleep, I think back to that night on the beach, when he took control and I shattered in his arms.

My nipples pebble beneath the silk of my camisole at the memory, the matching pajama shorts bunching between my legs as my hand drifts down, slipping beneath the glossy fabric and tracing over my clit.

I close my eyes, trying to emulate the feel of Jackson’s touch. Trying to imagine it’s his fingers ghosting along my center, slowly edging me closer—winding me tighter—until I explode all over his hand.

A shot of desire burns through me, a moan ripping from my throat as my fingers press firmly against my swelling nerves, my shorts growing damp and sticking to the inside of my thighs.

My teeth sink into my lower lip, breaking through the skin. The bite of pain is enough to catapult me over the edge, my body bursting until I see stars, my ears ringing from the force of my orgasm.

Breathing heavily as I come back down, my slippery fingers rest against my pulsing skin as disappointment replaces the temporary blast of pleasure.

Ever since that night, I’ve laid in bed, trying to recreate the sensations, but nothing has worked.

I’m desperate to feel that way again. For the chains of anxiety to break away as I fall apart in Jackson’s arms.

Is that how it always feels with another person?

Curiosity nags at my brain and I know I won’t be able to sleep until I find out. So even though it’s three a.m., I jump out of bed and grab my laptop, adrenaline rushing through me as I toss it on the comforter and pull up Google.

Floating feeling during orgasm.

The second I type it in embarrassment splatters across my insides, dripping down and pooling in my gut. I throw my head in my hands and groan.

What the hell am I even doing?

But even as I think it, my eyes are scanning articles, my mouse scrolling down the page in a frenzy.

Suddenly, everything stops.

My mouse hovers over a single word, a tugging sensation urging me to click.

So, I do.

30

Jackson

I’m in deep.

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