Starry-Eyed Love (Spark House)

Apparently, we’re engaging in small talk. “Things are pretty good.”

“Are the bridesmaid dresses all picked out now?”

“They are, and I’m happy to report that we won’t be wearing maroon and blue dresses.”

“That is excellent news.”

“It really is. We were concerned for a bit.”

“Reasonably so.” He sets my bag at the foot of the stairs. “Would you like a tour?”

This is very different from his penthouse in New York. Instead of a monochromatic color scheme, the living room is decorated in soft creams with pops of color. The furniture looks inviting and cozy. There’s a huge barrel chair with an incredible number of throw pillows in the living room off the front entrance.

“This is lovely.” I turn to Jackson, whose eyes are already on me.

We stare at each other for all of two seconds before we take simultaneous steps closer. His arm circles my waist, and I loop mine around his shoulders. Our mouths connect and Jackson groans while I sigh.

Unlike the last time, we’re not in the middle of my office, so we don’t need to worry about interruptions or someone walking in on us. Unless he has people taking care of this place like he does in New York. I decide before we get too heated that I should address that one issue.

I disengage long enough to mutter one sentence, “Are we alone?”

“Completely.”

That’s all the reassurance I need, so we go back to making out. Like we’re ravenous high schoolers. I want to climb him like a tree. And since he’s right, we’ve basically been dating for the past two months, I figure it doesn’t hurt to be a little brazen.

He breaks from my mouth to kiss his way along the edge of my jaw and down my neck. Our breath comes in quick pants.

“Jackson?” I tip my head to the side to give him better access.

“Mmm,” he mutters against my skin as his hands roam over my curves and he palms my backside.

“What time are our dinner reservations?”

“Not until seven.”

I’m not entirely sure of the current time, but we left my place at around three thirty, so at the very latest it’s closing in on five. That’s two more hours before we sit down for a meal and at least four before we’re back here, and that’s me being conservative on how long dinner is going to take.

If we make out for ninety minutes and then I have to sit in a restaurant and be attentive for several more hours, I think my brain may liquify and my vagina could explode.

Before he can glue his mouth back to mine, I cover it with my palm. “Would you like to show me your bedroom?”

He blinks three times. “Now?”

“Yes.”

“You wouldn’t prefer to wait until after I take you out for dinner?”

I swallow down my nerves and lay it all out for him. “I’ve been thinking about what you said last night, and again today. If we’ve been unofficially dating for two months, it’s really a wonder that we’ve made it this long without tearing each other’s clothes off. In the interest of not embarrassing ourselves with overt and inappropriate public displays of affection, I think it might be wise for us to indulge ourselves before dinner, instead of after. In all honestly, we should already be naked, and I should be bent over that couch.” I point at the piece of furniture.

“That’s very fair and also reasonable, and I will most definitely keep bending you over the couch in my back pocket should I need to get creative later.” Jackson threads his fingers through mine and tugs—not toward the couch.

I practically have to jog to keep up with his long strides as we ascend the stairs.

We pass two half-closed doors, and I follow him into the one at the end of the hall. I don’t even have time to take in the room before Jackson cups my face between his warm palms and kisses me again.

We’re a flurry of hands, tugging, unbuttoning, groaning, sighing, and laughing as we struggle to undress each other and still keep our lips locked. I’ve never been this frantic to get a man out of his clothes.

Jackson in a suit is a glorious sight, as is Jackson in pretty much any clothing combination. I even imagine he’d look good in a kilt. But Jackson naked is a sight to behold. He’s athletic and deliciously toned. Not too bulky, not too lean.

We kiss and touch, and all the while, Jackson backs me up until we reach the bed. He fumbles with the comforter, tugging it down, and pushes throw pillows out of the way. I have my doubts that he chose them or put them there, since I’m assuming he doesn’t even have to make his own bed.

I also consider that since this house is new, I’m the first person to sleep in this bed with him. No other woman has kissed him in this room, or made him groan the way he is now. And I find I like that idea. Knowing that I’m the only woman who has been here, and that every time he climbs into this bed, the echo of this experience will be there.