If It's Only Love (Boys of Jackson Harbor 6)

“Say something,” she whispers, and I realize I’ve just been staring, trying to catalogue every change while her hands shake at her sides.

“You’re beautiful.” Is there really anything else to say? But the more honest part of my brain whispers that there’s so much more. I want you. I need you. I’ve fucking missed you.

She looks down and swallows. “Better, huh?”

My stomach knots. I hate that she never saw herself the way I saw her. “You’ve always been beautiful. I’ve told you that before.”

Her lips part as she blows out a breath. “I’ll never look like your Scarlett Lashenta.”

The words are a kick in the nuts. They’re a reminder that my decisions shackled this girl—this woman—with insecurities. “I’m glad for that.” My wife’s name floats in the room, a reminder that I’m entangled in a different world than Shay, a more vicious one, a reminder that we can’t be seen together without that world taking a swing at her. “Shay . . .”

She gives a small, sad smile and turns her back to me, striding toward the bed.

I close my eyes and count my breaths. In. Out. In. Out. I know why she’s here now—I understand exactly what she wants from me. And I want it too—holy shit, do I want it. I want to give her what she came here for tonight, provide the comfort I know she needs. More than that, I want her. But my life is a fucking mess, and I can’t drag her into that. Scarlett may have moved out, but our lives are still entwined. I have to work out my shit so I can give Shay more than another night of pleasure.

When I finally lock on to my resolve, I follow her into the room and find her crouched in front of the minibar, digging through it. The sight of Shay in her underwear, frowning at a bottle of tequila, makes me grin.

She holds it up. “Not much here, but do you mind?”

“Help yourself.”

She unscrews the lid and takes a sip, grimacing. “Shit.”

When she offers it to me, I shake my head. I don’t drink much during the season, but even if I did, I don’t trust myself to drink tonight. I already only have a tenuous hold on my self-control, and even a drop of alcohol might obliterate that.

She shrugs. “Suit yourself.” She takes another sip as she scans the room. “I really expected you to be in a fancy suite or something. This is . . . almost a normal-person hotel room.”

I chuckle and sink into a chair on the opposite side of the minibar, crossing my feet at the ankles as I sit back. “When I was a rookie, I had to have a roommate. I definitely prefer this.”

She lifts the mini bottle. “Here’s to being a big shot and having your own room.” She drains the rest of the tequila and wanders to the window, pulling the curtain aside to peer out at the view. I can’t stop looking at her—at her perfect nipples peaked against the thin white cotton of her bra, her bare legs, her toenails painted a dark purple. I wouldn’t have imagined she could be more beautiful. If she’d asked, I would’ve told her not to lose the weight, that she was perfect as she was. But now? She stands taller, her chin higher. She wanders around my room nearly nude with a self-confidence that was perhaps the only thing she was missing before. It’s the confidence that makes her shine, gives her thinner, stronger self an edge on the old Shay. I wonder if she knows that. Or if she thinks that when she walks through a room and men stare at her from every direction, it’s because her stomach’s flatter and her hips are narrower.

Slowly, she saunters toward me, her eyes locked with mine. Every step closer steals oxygen from my lungs. I can hardly catch my breath, and I know the only relief will be in touching her. She stops in front of me and swings a foot over my extended legs until she’s straddling my thighs. It would be so easy to bend and press my mouth against her stomach, cup my hand over those pink panties. I could grip her hips and hold her in place while I slide off the chair to the floor between her legs and bury my face in her pussy. I’m dying to taste her again. I want to fill my head with the sounds she makes and the smell of her. Fuck, I want to make her come and claim her as mine in the most primitive way.

“I keep waiting for you to kick me out,” she whispers. Swallowing, she props a knee on either side of my hips and lowers herself onto my lap. The little bottle of tequila is still in one hand, and she wraps the other behind my neck.