It Started with a Kiss

Jackson’s always been a bit of trouble, but trouble might be just the thing I need tonight.

Giving me the same smirk that got me into bed this past summer, he asks, “Are you ready for me?”

1

Jackson St. James

If Marlow Marché knows how to do one thing, it’s torture me.

Sexy ass.

Tight dress.

Killer curves on full display.

Her gaze locks with mine from across the room. Our arrangement has been a highlight of the past four months.

Who knew that these added benefits with one of my closest friends would end up being the best sex of my life?

Or that sneaking around with her would be more fun than publicly parading any other woman in this city?

We’ve agreed it’s been fun to act like there’s nothing to see here, to pretend that I don’t know what it feels like to be buried deep inside her heat, or like she hasn’t made me privy to the fact that she likes to be bent over and taken from behind. We’ve fucked every way imaginable, yet with midnight fast approaching, I can’t stop thinking about kissing her tonight.

I realize now that I would have been content staying home on New Year’s, celebrating with her at my place or hers. Low-key. Order in. Have some drinks. Kick back and then have sex.

She’s been doing a fine fucking job of torturing me since the moment she opened the door. But now, from across the room—locking eyes with me as another man vies for her attention—it’s another level. Tired of the distance, I weave my way through the party, heading straight for her. Eyeing the curve of her exposed lower back where it meets the top of her ass, I lower my gaze to the short red dress highlighting her great legs and then back up. The graceful line of her neck is on display under a loose twist of her hair, drawing my attention to that spot I tease with my tongue near her ear that drives her wild.

It’s warm in here, so I tug on my collar.

Slowing when I pass from behind, I lean in close and whisper, “I’ll be on the balcony if you’re looking for someone to kiss, Marché.”

Turning back, I catch her gaze dip to get a good look at my backside before those bright blues reach mine. “And why would I be looking for someone to kiss, St. James?” She takes a sip of her champagne, acting prim when I know how she shreds my clothes when we’re alone. Those buttons don’t stand a chance against her desire to see me naked.

I don’t either, but I never did when it came to Marlow.

We may have been just friends all these years, but I always gave in to her whims. And more recently, to her sexual desires. Not without a little, or a lot, of teasing as a lead-in. But we both benefit from the deal we made.

I tap my watch and wink. “Ten minutes.”

She grins before some jackoff dressed in a tux dares to fucking touch her bare shoulder to get her attention. There’s more than one reason she’s watching me, so the fucker needs to take the hint and move along.

Of course, he doesn’t hear my internal tirade. I’m a gentleman, after all, and this is a party. My fists clench, but I keep walking, not looking to end this year in a fight or start the next one in jail.

She removes his hand from her body just before her eyes meet mine again and the slightest of grins graces her lips. She enjoys making me jealous, but it’s become more agonizing every day.

The woman may have been pampered her whole life, but I’ve learned firsthand that the last thing Marlow wants stepping into the mix is a man. She doesn’t let anybody into her life that easily, which has been one of the hurdles we’ve faced. So I know she can handle that situation without my assistance.

I’ve become a student, intent on learning everything about what makes her tick. I’ve spent our time together studying how the puzzle pieces of our lives might fit together. Or if it’s an impossibility.

I read her body language like a book, digging deeper into each of her expressions, the sounds of her pleasure, and most of her glances.

The way her eyes lock on mine, telling me she wants me without saying a word.

Her annoyance, seen in the roll of her eyes when I talk sports with the guys.

The impatience that embodies her tapping foot when she’s bored and ready to go to the next place.

Those are the simple ways she expresses herself.

It’s the soft lines on the outside corners of her eyes that make my chest tighten. I know the genuine smile that caused them is from something I said or the joy she feels. The gentle way she touches my leg when a meal with our friends has her feeling connected to me, even if short-lived. Even when she treats what we do as casual sex, I see through her.