Dirty Sexy Sinner (17 page)

He glanced over his shoulder at her, a sexy smile on his lips. “Hey, beautiful. You hungry?”

“Umm, very.” She wrapped her arms around his waist, flattened her hands on his firm stomach, and placed a soft, warm kiss on his back. She inhaled the scent of her body wash lingering on his skin and grinned. “Maybe I’ll just take a big bite out of you. You smell like a delicious, juicy peach.”

He chuckled, the sound wicked. “You can eat me, lick me, and suck me later. I promise. Right now, I think we both need
real
food.”

She couldn’t disagree. She was starved. “And caffeine,” she added, gravitating toward the coffeemaker. “I didn’t get much sleep last night since a certain someone kept me up for hours.”

“If you’re expecting an apology, it’s not gonna happen,” he replied unrepentantly as he flipped a monstrous omelet in the large pan he had on the stove. “Not once in the
six times
that I fucked you did I hear that mouth of yours say, ‘I’m tired, let me sleep.’ So really, it’s your own fault.”

She laughed as she stirred cream and sugar into her coffee, then moved to the counter next to the stove and leaned against it. “I have to admit, your stamina is impressive.”

Turning off the burner, he plated the fluffy egg dish, set it on the counter beside her hip, then kissed her mouth as he murmured, “My dick was totally influenced by the softest, warmest, tightest pussy it’s ever had.
Yours
.”

She bit her bottom lip as a heated flush swept across her freshly scrubbed cheeks. She shouldn’t be embarrassed after all the delightfully depraved things he’d done to her last night, but Jesus, the man had the dirtiest, filthiest mouth and had a way of catching her off guard with his shocking statements.

He took the coffee mug from her hands and set it aside, then grabbed her waist and lifted her until she was sitting on the counter. She gasped in startled surprise as he pushed her knees apart and moved in between so that her legs bracketed his hips.

“What are you doing?” she asked breathlessly.

He gave the mug back to her to hold and shrugged. “You only had enough eggs in the refrigerator for one omelet, so we’re going to have to share.”

She’d had at least a half carton of eggs, so his idea of what constituted
one
omelet was a huge serving size, not to mention the ham, mushrooms, and cheese he’d overstuffed it with. “I do have a table we can sit at, you know.”

“Yeah, I know,” he said, his eyes bright with amusement as he brought a forkful of eggs to her mouth. “But this is much more convenient. And fun.”

“You’re going to feed me my breakfast?” she asked incredulously.

A bad-boy grin lifted the corners of his lips. “It’s the least I can do to thank you for that phenomenal blow job you just gave me. So just relax and enjoy, okay?

She rolled her eyes. “Okay. Fine.”

She took the bite he offered and had to admit that he made one amazingly good omelet. For every one bite he fed to her, he ate two, not that she minded since he probably needed the calories more than she did. And once she
did
relax, she realized how much she appreciated being the center of his attention. She felt spoiled and pampered and cared for . . . and those were luxuries she’d lived most of her life without.

She just needed to be careful and not get too used to Jackson’s sole focus and attention. Whatever this was between them, it was amazing and exciting, but she knew better than to read more into this affair than what it currently was. There was no telling how long it would last, and it had taken her once broken, damaged heart so long to heal that she was cautious about giving someone that part of herself again.

They finished the breakfast he’d made, and Jackson rinsed the plate off, then came back to where she was still sitting on the counter. She expected him to help her down, but instead he braced his hands on either side of her thighs, his expression suddenly more serious than it had been since leaving Clay’s the night before.

He exhaled a deep breath, his eyes so gentle it made her heart ache because she couldn’t remember the last time anyone had looked at her with such understanding and affection. “So, now that you have a full stomach, there’s something I’d like to ask you, but I’ll understand if it’s something you don’t want to talk about.”

She swallowed hard, feeling uneasy. Those were pretty much the same words she’d spoken to him last night, before she’d asked about his assault charge. When he’d turned around and asked her about
her
secrets and she’d managed to evade the question.

“Okay,” she replied, hating the slight quiver in her voice and the dread of the unknown question coming her way.

“I saw your tattoo last night,” he said, his gaze holding hers steadily. “What does ‘The struggle is part of the story’ mean?”

An involuntary shiver stole through her, and her heart started a slow pound in her chest, increasing the anxiety quickening her pulse. The significance of the phrase she’d had Mason tattoo on her was personal and private, and no one had seen it until Jackson. It was a reminder of the journey she’d started over six years ago and the grief and anguish she’d survived. But was she ready to crack open a sealed part of her heart and share those painful memories with this man?

He slowly lifted a hand, and with excruciating gentleness, he brushed the backs of his fingers along her cheek in a soothing caress. “Sweetheart, whatever just put that panic I can clearly see in your eyes, whatever it is, it can’t be that bad.”

He was wrong. It
was
that bad. She inhaled a shaky breath, torn between pushing him away so she could put distance between them and being brave and sharing her biggest, most devastating secret with him. Part of her fear was that he’d look at her differently, that he’d see her more as an ex-drug addict who had no place in his successful life than a woman still trying to find her place in the world.

He was waiting patiently, not pushing or prodding for answers, leaving the end result totally up to her. She’d only known Jackson a short time, but there was one thing she knew without question—he was a man of integrity, one who valued honesty and trust, both of which he’d given to
her
. If he could allow her insight into his past, to the shitty childhood he’d endured and the betrayal of his ex-wife, couldn’t she do the same?

The initial dread and fear she’d experienced slowly faded away as Jackson gave her as much time as she needed to make her decision. Letting anyone close was difficult for Tara when she was so used to protecting her emotions. Allowing someone to witness her greatest failure, to learn about the stupid choices she’d made that had led to a dark depression of guilt that had nearly swallowed her whole was even more challenging.

But maybe this moment with Jackson, this particular emotional struggle, was also a part of the story—and with that realization, she knew she had two choices. She could let the past continue to keep her from truly being whole and at peace with herself, or she could release the pain and take a step toward her future and the possibility of finding something special and unique with this man.

When presented that way, her decision became an easy one.

The calm that suddenly settled over Tara was exactly what she needed to know that she’d come to the right conclusion. “I think for you to truly understand the entire story, I need to tell you how I grew up.”

He set his hands on her knees, not in a sexual way but as a reassurance that he was right there with her. “Okay.”

“Do you remember me telling you that my father is an army sergeant at Camp Butler in Springfield?” When he nodded, she continued. “Well, growing up with a parent in the military was tough. When I was really young, he was stationed overseas, so I only saw him a few times a year, but around the time I turned eight, he accepted a position at a base close to home, and the dynamic of our family completely changed. I always knew he was strict, because that’s how he treated me and my brother when he was home on leave, but having him living with us full-time, well . . . it was bad.”

Jackson didn’t say a word, but then he didn’t have to. The compassion in his eyes reached out to her, and the calming sensation of his thumb gently stroking her skin right above her knee was exactly the connection to him that she needed.

“My father was very hard-edged and stern, and he had certain expectations of me and my brother that seemed, at times, impossible to live up to. Nothing we did was good enough, ever.” She shook her head as she remembered how beaten down and inadequate she’d felt, how her self-esteem had gradually dwindled along with what little she’d had left of her pride. “Anything below an A in school was unacceptable and we were punished. The chores we were expected to do around the house were endless, but the fact that he found fault in everything I did was what made life with him so excruciating. There was never any positive reinforcement, no praise for a job well done, because in his mind, my brother and I could do better, be better.”

“What about your mother?” he asked quietly.

“My mother was passive and timid and would never contradict anything my father said or did. Even if she knew he was wrong or out of line, she never stood up to him, and that made me so fucking angry as a teenager. Especially when, as I got older, my father would criticize the clothes I wore, the style of my hair, the friends I had . . . and she never, not once, said a goddamn word in my defense.”

Tara’s throat tightened as memories of how hurt and betrayed she’d felt toward her mother during that time resurfaced now. “My mother’s inability to get a backbone so she could protect me and my brother from our father’s mental and emotional abuse only fueled my rage toward the entire situation. By the time I was sixteen, I was deliberately breaking every fucking rule my father made because it didn’t make any difference if I followed them or not, because I couldn’t do anything right, anyway. By the time I was eighteen, I was running with a bad crowd and abusing prescription drugs because it was the only thing that numbed my emotions and made my life bearable.”

Jackson swore beneath his breath, and he picked up her hands, his fingers so warm compared to how cold she felt. He held her hands as if he wanted her to know that he was right there with her, listening to every word and empathizing with her family situation considering what he’d gone through with the man who’d raised him. Except her circumstance, and the choices she’d made, had led to a tragic ending she’d been too naive to ever see coming.

She forced herself to continue. “By the time I was nineteen, my father had kicked me out of the house because, according to him, I was a disgrace, and he wasn’t going to support a drug addict in any way. Never once did he or my mom try and get me the help I desperately needed to get clean and sober, so I spent the next few years crashing on friends’ couches and doing whatever it took to get ahold of oxycodone so I didn’t have to feel anything . . . and that’s how I met Michael.”

“Michael?” he prompted curiously.

She nodded, trying to maintain her composure as she finished her story, but it was difficult considering what she was about to relive. “Michael, a guy I ended up getting involved with, was from a wealthy family, and he had emotional issues of his own that opiates helped him escape. We were together for a few months, and he had some connections to a dealer who sold the street version of fentanyl, which is one of the strongest painkillers on the market. We didn’t know at the time, but the fentanyl was laced with heroin, and we both overdosed.”

Her voice cracked, and she could feel the swell of moisture burning in her eyes. “Our roommate at the time found both of us unconscious the following morning, and we were taken to the hospital. I survived, but Michael . . . died.” Hot, scalding tears fell over her lashes and tracked down her cheeks. “His family, when they came to the hospital, blamed me for his death. His sister, Brynn, said the most horrible, hateful things to me, and I just wanted to die from the pain I’d caused her family, even though it wasn’t directly my fault. I’ve never felt such loathing and contempt from a person.”

“Jesus, I’m so sorry.” He raised both of his hands and swiped away the wetness with his thumbs, a deep frown furrowing his brows. “Your parents . . . did they come and see you?”

“Not once,” she said, her voice raspy from the painful sob she’d managed to hold back. “They never acknowledged the fact that I nearly died or came to visit me during my stay in rehab after it happened or joined me during my therapy sessions. Regret, sadness, shame, survivor’s guilt . . . I went through it all alone.”

“Ahh, sweetheart . . .” He slid his arms around her and pulled her into his embrace. “You’re not alone anymore.”

She wrapped her arms around his waist, her cheek resting on his warm chest as he stroked her back. “No, I’m not. I have Clay, Mason, Levi—”

He pulled back and stared deep into her eyes. So deep she wanted to drown in the emotion she saw there. “And me, Tara,” he said with a fierce conviction she wanted so badly to believe. “You have
me
.”

Yes, for now she did. And for now, it was enough. “Thank you.”

His hands came back up to her face again, cradling her as if she were a piece of fine china. “You are one of the strongest, most resilient women I know . . . and I’m fucking crazy about you,” he added with a grin.

She laughed, grateful for the bit of humor that served to chase away the depressing memories. “I’m a little crazy about you, too,” she admitted, unable to deny the butterflies in her stomach that accompanied that truthful statement.

“Spend the day with me,” he insisted with a smile. “We can have lunch at Navy Pier, go to a movie, anything you want.”

She wanted to say yes so badly but was instead filled with regret. “I can’t. I have to be at work at four, and I close down the bar tonight.”

His lips flattened into a sullen line. “Can I just say I hate your fucking schedule?” he grumbled unhappily.

For the first time ever, so did she. “Are you seriously pouting right now?”

“No,” he insisted, though the small smirk that suddenly replaced his glum expression contradicted his denial. “I just want to make you, and us, work. I want to see you and date you and just . . . be with you.”