Jackson (11 page)

Her fingers scrabbled about on the table for a pen. She finally found one, but there was no scrap paper to be found—if Roth and Alexei had been making notes, they’d hidden them somewhere else. But it didn’t matter. She scribbled the numbers down on the inside of her arm, determined to investigate them further when she had the chance. She was just finishing when she heard footsteps coming down the stairs. She closed the atlas and shoved it back on the table as she jumped to her feet.

Jackson was on the steps. He glanced between her and the atlas, and while she saw the question in his eyes, he didn’t ask. Instead he stopped right in front of her and said, “I think we should talk.”

There was something in his eyes that made heat rush down her spine. But her back was pressed against the table. She had nowhere to run.

“Jackson, I don’t think—”

“No,” he said, catching her by the chin so she couldn’t look away from him. “We need to talk.”

“I’ve already said everything I need to say.”

His eyes burned into her. “And I haven’t said nearly enough.”

Her heart nearly stopped. She tried to wiggle away from him, but he trapped her completely against the table. He was a wall of muscle, and there was no way to escape him.

“I shouldn’t have asked to come,” she said, desperate. “It was reckless. Stupid.”

“But you did ask to come.” His voice was low and rough like waves against a rocky shore. “You wanted to come.”

“I didn’t think about… about all the complications.” About what being close to him again would do to her. What it
was
doing to her right now, even though she knew better.

She pressed her hands against his chest, trying to push him away, but he caught her by the wrists.

“Tell me that you don’t want this,” he said. “Tell me that you don’t feel this thing between us, that you’re willing to walk away from this, and I’ll take you to the fucking airport personally.”

She was ready to do it. It would be the smart thing, the responsible thing. But when her eyes met his—when she saw that burning hunger in their depths—the words dried up in her throat.

“I never should have walked away from you like that,” he said.

Her voice was a whisper. “But you did.”

“And I’ve regretted it every fucking day since. I was seeing you everywhere. Tasting you in my dreams. And no matter what I did to distract myself, it was never fucking enough.” He dipped his head a little closer. “It will never be enough.”

“You can’t do this,” she begged. “You can’t say those things.” But that mantra was losing a bit of its power every time she repeated those words to herself.

His mouth moved even closer. “Why not? They’re the truth.”

She could feel his heart hammering beneath her palm against his chest. Feel the heat of him enveloping her, refusing to let her go. And as much as she tried to fight it, as much as she knew this was as wrong and stupid and reckless as everything else she’d done in the past couple of days, she couldn’t tell him so. She just shook her head as one of the tears that had been building up finally escaped down her cheek.

“Don’t cry, Goose,” he said, releasing one of her wrists so that he could wipe away the tear with the pad of his thumb.

“This is a mistake,” she whispered, but she wasn’t sure whether she was trying to convince him or herself.

“Is it?”

His mouth was so close now that she could taste his breath on her lips, but at the last second he turned his head and pressed his mouth against the track her tear had left.

“You were never a mistake,” he murmured against her skin. He tilted her face and brushed his lips against her other cheek. “You never will be. The only mistake in any of this was mine, in thinking that I should walk away from this. In thinking I
could.
”

Her heart was fluttering so fast she could have sworn it was about to fly away. But she didn’t need to speak. Jackson’s lips touched her eyelids, one and then the other, kissing away any lingering tears. And then his mouth moved across her skin again, temples and cheeks and jaw, until there was nowhere left for him to kiss but her lips.

And there he paused, his mouth a fraction of an inch away from hers.

“Goose…” he breathed against her lips.

Her response was even softer. “I told you not to call me that.”

“Then what should I call you?”

She didn’t answer.

“What do you want, Charlie?”

Everything.
But the word froze on her tongue. Instead, she felt her fingers curling around the front of his T-shirt, pulling him toward her.

The first touch of their lips was tentative, unsure. A test. But when they parted and their eyes met, it was all over.

Jackson’s mouth came down on hers, hungry and wild. His arms went around her, dragging her against his chest until his heat melded with hers. Need rushed through her like a wave, and she clung to his shirt as it pulled her under.

It was three steps to their bunk. He backed her into the room without breaking the kiss, and when the back of her legs hit the bed they both went tumbling down, him on top of her, still clinging to each other. The whole world shook around her, but she refused to let him go, refused to pull her lips away from his.

His hands slid over her, continuing their explorations from earlier today. They ran from her hips up across her waist and finally to her chest, where her nipples were already prickling with sensation, rising to hard points against her bra.

Meanwhile, she was doing some explorations of her own, reaching her hands beneath his shirt so she could press her palms against his bare skin, feeling all of the ways his body had grown and changed since the last time they’d been skin-to-skin. His muscles flexed beneath her touch, and she curled her fingers against him, drawing a growl from him as her nails bit into his flesh.

He tore his lips away from hers and kissed her jaw, her ear, her neck. His mouth was blazing hot against her skin.

“I need you,” he said against her throat. “Fuck, Charlie, I need you.”

Her entire body throbbed with longing.

“I need you, too,” she whispered.

“Good. Because I don’t think I could go slowly right now.” He was already tugging her dress up her thighs, reaching down between them. Her legs fell apart of their own accord.

She gasped when his fingers first pressed against her panties. A fresh jolt of lust shot through her, and she whimpered as he hooked his thumb around her underwear and yanked it down her legs. He nipped at her neck before moving his mouth lower, dragging it down across her throat and upper chest. He’d reached the top of her breasts by the time his fingers were between his legs again, and she knew he felt every bit of her desire.

“I’ve never tasted anyone like you,” he growled against the soft curve of her breast.

She could only cling to him as he slipped a finger inside of her. It was only a finger, only a fraction of what she wanted, and yet she’d gone so long without his touch, without the ecstasy of their physical connection, that even this was shockingly intense. She arched her hips against his hand, aching for more of that connection, for more of
him
, whatever he was willing to give her. Her body recognized his touch, needed it like air.

He lifted his face from her chest. His finger still worked between her legs, stroking her in time with the movements of her hips, teasing them both. But his other hand was undoing his pants, then pushing them down his legs.

Before they even hit the floor, he was on top of her again, kissing her even more hungrily than before. His teeth ground into her lips. It was as if he couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t taste her deep enough. He pulled his hand away from her as his body slid between her thighs.

His mouth barely drew back from hers as he rasped, “Are you still on the pill?”

“Yes,” she breathed in response. “Have you been safe?”

“Yes.” He shifted his hips, and she could feel him right against her now. One thrust and they’d be joined again, joined as they were meant to be, and she didn’t think she could breathe until that moment.

But for the first time, he paused. Pulled back slightly. They hadn’t bothered to flip on the light in their little bunk, but a soft glow came in through the porthole window. It was just enough for her to see his face as he gazed down at her.

He was propped on his elbows over her, and he brought his hands to the sides of her face, cupping her cheeks. His thumbs swept across her skin, caressing her. There was such tenderness in his expression that her eyes burned again, but this time the tears had nothing to do with fear or pain.

“Charlie,” he whispered, like her name was the sweetest word in the world. “Charlie, I—”

But the rest of his words were lost as a gunshot rang through the air.

CHAPTER SIX

Jackson went cold.

His first instinct was to drop down on top of Charlie, to protect her as much as he could. It took him a full minute to realize the gun hadn’t gone off in the room with them. But it had been close—which meant the danger was still very real.

He leaped up and tugged up his pants. Charlie tried to get up, too, but he shook his head. “Stay down here. Lock the door. Don’t open it for anyone but me.”

Heavy footsteps sounded above them—then a curse and a shout.

Fuck.
He stumbled over to the cabinet over the kitchenette, yanking open the door and shoving aside the cans of food. In the back of the cabinet was a hidden compartment where they stored a number of small handguns. He hadn’t been wearing one. That was fucking careless. He threw a glance at the stairs, but no one was coming down. Vincent’s journals and atlas were still on the table.

“Leo?” he called.

There was no answer.

He ran up the stairs. Leo was on his knees on the deck, gripping his arm. Dark blood oozed between his fingers.

Jackson spun around, gun raised. But there was no one else on the deck.

“Off… there…” Leo said, his voice strained with pain as he threw a bloody finger in the direction of one of the nearby alleys. A dark figure was tearing off through the night. “Bastard thought he could catch me by surprise.”

Jackson didn’t hesitate. He tore across the gangplank and raced after the fleeing figure. The guy had a huge head start, but if anyone in the Set could catch him, it was Jackson. And he wasn’t about to let the fucker get away. Not after he’d let his last quarry give him the slip. He sprinted through the streets.

It didn’t take long for Jackson to gain some ground. But the streets were busy with people going to the restaurants and nightclubs, and it was hard not to barrel into anyone as he sprinted past. His gun was still in his hand, but it was too risky to shoot. He didn’t want to bring out the local police—or worse, hurt someone innocent.

But that fucker ahead of him had shot Leo, and he wasn’t going to get away with it.

If you hadn’t been distracted, you could have stopped him
, he told himself.
But you were too busy thinking with your cock when you should’ve been thinking of your team.
Roth had left him and Leo in charge of the boat, and he couldn’t let his leader down. He refused to let his quarry escape him. If that meant chasing him through hell and back, then so be it.

Charlie’s face flashed in his mind—her cheeks flushed, her lips swollen, her gray eyes glazed with desire for him. With trust. It might have been her who’d been hurt. She could
still
be hurt, if she stayed with him.

But he’d debate that issue with himself later. Right now, he had a rat to catch. And this time, there’d be no escape.

* * *

Charlotte tried to stay in the bunk, truly she did.

But when Jackson didn’t return—and when she didn’t hear the sounds of gunshots, or even of a struggle—she couldn’t bear to stay cooped up. Not if Jackson might be hurt.

Her legs trembled as she stood. Her body felt like a tightly wound spring—but whether that was from fear or from certain unresolved tensions, she couldn’t be sure. Her thighs were still wet with the evidence of what she and Jackson had almost done. Quietly, she opened the door.

There was no one else down here with her. No sign of Jackson or Leo or anyone else. She still couldn’t hear anything happening up on the deck, but she grabbed a pot from the stove before heading up the stairs. She didn’t want to be completely empty-handed.

Halfway up the stairs, she heard a moan. She tightened her grip on the pot, but in the moonlight, she was quick to recognize Leo. He was sitting on one of the benches, a towel pressed against his arm.

It took her a second to realize that the red stain on the towel was blood.

“Shit,” she said, nearly dropping the pot.

Leo glanced up. “I’ll live,
mi bella.
”

Panic rose in her chest. She’d never seen a gunshot wound before. Never seen anyone with a violent injury.

“What happened?” she said. “Where’s Jackson?”

“Chased after the guy,” Leo said. He smiled, but his voice was strained.