It Started with a Kiss

Save what used to define me, or do I discover the woman I am now?

I know the answer. Even if I don’t like the decision I have to make.

You know what I do like?

Jackson St. James.

I wonder if texting him tonight is too soon?

11

Marlow

I want to have sex.

I send the text before I have a chance to delete it, and then gulp down the rest of my red wine. In the past four days, I’ve discovered it’s not about living without sex. It’s about living without having sex with Jackson. And him in general.

Of course, he’d probably get a good chuckle that I’m already missing him only twenty-four hours later . . . what can I say? I find him entertaining in many ways.

I’m not even horny.

Well . . . I am, but I can live with those cravings. I can even satisfy them battery-style. Jackson St. James is a great lover, and those skills should never be discounted. My insides flutter from the memory of his hands on me, the feel of him inside me, and the look on his face—something caught between devouring and savoring.

I appreciate both on him.

He takes his time and puts his attention into pleasing me, sexually speaking that is. He’s into it, so into me when we’re together like that as if no one else exists, time doesn’t matter, and tomorrow is a world away.

Every inch of me is covered with kisses, and my body’s drained of each wave of new sensation when released. I also like the way he kisses behind my ear, so that’s a bonus.

What can I say? I’m a simple girl with simple needs.

And let’s face the facts. The man turns me on.

I lie back on the couch, staring up at my phone screen. I have plenty of offers and a phone full of messages inviting me out tonight. I could go to the ballet with Steven or a jazz bar with Javier. Mr. Casteleone would love to discuss his art collection over dinner at one of the most exclusive dinner clubs in the city. Even Chuck from receiving asked me to a movie.

Wining and dining have always drawn me in. Mixing and mingling in high society or even a cozy wine bar on the Upper West Side has the makings of a good night.

But I don’t want wine or food. I want Jackson.

That’s been my issue for a while now. Sure, we said we could date others when our proposition first came into play, but that ended not long after. At least for me, it did.

I didn’t use to ask him if he was still dating because I was afraid of the answer. But if I had to bet my life on it, I feel confident we’re in the same boat these days.

I’m not naïve enough to think sex and relationships are mutually exclusive. I’ve actually been a proponent of proving it’s the opposite. It’s entirely possible to have one without the other. We did that for years prior to hooking up. Neither of us has ever claimed to be angels.

But the comfort and encouragement he gave me to take care of my business has kept me warm all day. I can’t imagine dating anyone else at this stage.

Holding my phone in my hand, I’m disappointed that he hasn’t texted me back yet.

I remind myself that he has business to take care of as well.

Easier said than done because despite all the stuff I should be doing, I can’t stop thinking about him.

I start to text again, but a message pops up first: Wrong number.

Oh, God! I sit forward, mortified, and double-check the number. Please tell me I didn’t send an I want to have sex text to a stranger. I see his name above the messages. Oh, thank God! I text: You’re a jerk, St. James.

He’s quick to return a message this time: Do you always tell jerks you want to have sex with them?

I type: Apparently.

Jackson: What’s the plan for getting you sexed? You need a wingman at a bar, or maybe a hookup to the club tonight. My password to watch porn? What do you need? Like the insurance, I’m there.

I slide lower on the cushion, kicking my feet up on the arm of the white leather sofa. Me: You’d help me pick up another man to have sex with?

Jackson: Fuck no. No other man is coming near you.

Why is it such a turn-on when he gets possessive? There’s just something so sexy when Jackson’s territorial instincts kick in. Me: But you just offered.

Jackson: Yeah, fuck that. Sexing you up is my job.

Me: You’re hired. When can you start?

A knock on my door has me bolting upright. I type: Hold on. Someone’s here.

Jackson: A little late, don’t you think?

I hurry across the apartment and lift onto the balls of my feet to peek through the peephole.