Undeniable

I don’t hear him move towards me, not until he’s standing mere inches away from me. My body tenses at his nearness. I want to move far away from him, to put some distance between us, but my traitorous body is remembering what it felt like to be touched by him, and yearning, almost desperately for even the small gap between us to be filled.

By sheer force of will, I keep looking out of the windows, pretending that I can’t feel him standing so close, ignoring the heat building inside me, the hunger as every surface of my skin screams for him to touch me,

“Constance is right,” he murmurs, his deep voice so close to my ear, that I can feel his warm breath tickle my neck, “You have grown very beautiful."

I don’t trust myself to speak, not when he’s so close. I don’t trust myself not to do something foolish and undo all the closure I’ve managed to get in the seven years I’ve been away from him. I search my head frantically for anything to occupy my mind, to take it away from the memories of how his touch used to feel, and thoughts of how it would feel now.

When I’m sure I have my insane desires under control, I turn to face him. “I’m glad you think so Jackson,” I say bravely, my expression blank as I look squarely into his eyes. I can do this, I think triumphantly, I can handle him. “Thank you,” I finish dismissively.

He chuckles softly and reaches up, the small movement making me flinch, half in anticipation and half in uncertainty, as my bravery of a few moments ago, flees me. I don’t know what he means to do, but I’m sure I don’t want his hands anywhere on me, because God knows I’m neither strong enough, nor indifferent enough for that.

He strokes a thumb across the base of my throat, where my pulse is beating a rhythm against the surface of my skin. His finger is warm and firm, and just that slight touch does things to my body, things that have nothing to do with self-control, and everything to do with the sexy, extremely attractive man standing in front of me.

“Am I making you nervous?” he asks, his voice beguilingly intimate.

I shake my head. “No.”

“Your heart is racing,” he murmurs, tracing his thumb down from my collarbone towards the neckline of my top. I should tell him to stop. I want to. I want to walk away, slap his face, tell him to get the hell out of my room, but something keeps me rooted to the spot. His abandons my neckline, and trails a light path down my arm with his fingers, and despite myself, I tremble slightly at the contact.

I drag in a shaky breath, my mind unwilling to accept that even though I haven’t been this close to him in seven years, with just one touch, my body is already consumed with wanting him.

“What are you doing, Jackson?” I say shakily. “What are you trying to prove?’

There is no humor in his smile. “Perhaps I’m just wondering if underneath that cool exterior you’re as indifferent to me as you seem to be."

“What does it matter if I am or not?” I ask. “I’m only here to work."

“Not to revisit ancient history, as you’ve already said.” His hand comes up to draw a soft line across my cheek. The touch is gentle, almost tender. "And you have no interest in renewing old friendships, and mixing business with pleasure.”

I laug

h. It’s a short bitter sound. “If it’s you offering the pleasure, then I’ll pass. Thank you.” I shake my head. “I’ve had enough of your particular brand of pleasure to last me a lifetime.”

He considers me for a moment. “Well if not me, you could always find someone else to play with. You were always very resourceful at finding unsuspecting guys to seduce, weren’t you?”

I flinch at his words as memories fight their way into my head through the walls I’ve kept up for seven years. If only he knew, I think bitterly. “I’m not going to join you in talking about the past, Jackson. I’ve moved on.”

He shrugs and steps back, as if our conversation had never happened. “Blythe will be here sometime during the week. I have no idea how long she’s staying.”

Blythe too! I sigh. This is becoming more and more like a reunion every minute.

“And you?” I ask, “Do you plan to remain here for long?”

“Would you rather I left?”

“It’s your house.” I say with a dismissive shrug.

An eyebrow goes up. “So it doesn’t matter to you if I’m here or not?”

“No.” I lie.

He moves towards me again, and I stiffen, my heart hitting my ribs hard as he leans over me. There is a dangerous gleam in his eyes, but otherwise there’s no expression on his face. I want to step back from him, but at the same time, I want him to do something, to touch me, to remind me why I’ve only ever really wanted him.

“How easily you dismiss me.” He murmurs. “I should warn you that I’m not so nonchalant about your presence here. Frankly I don’t know if I want to hurt you for coming back here after everything, or fuck you till your body can’t take anymore.”

The image pushes its way into my head and immediately my foolish body clenches in response. I swallow hard, but I don’t move, and neither does he. I want to say something dismissive, some careless remark about his last statement, something to put him in his place, but words fail me. Maybe if he weren’t standing so close, maybe if his eyes weren’t burning a hole in me, maybe if I didn’t actually want him to lean a little closer and remind me of what his lips feel like. Maybe then, I could find the right words.

A discreet knock on the door brings me to my senses. I step back from Jackson just as the door opens, and a young man walks in carrying the rest of my luggage.