“Not to mention how much I like the placement.” He slowly slides his fingertips back and forth, just below my collarbone. “Wouldn’t mind checking it out up close, with nothing obscuring the art.”
“You mean, without clothes?”
He cocks a brow.
His fingers are warm on my skin. He’s tempting, but I slap his hand. “Not happening anytime soon.”
He laughs, low and rough. “No rush, Miki. I’ll wait.”
His hands slide to my waist, safer territory. I lift my face to his, my mouth to his. He takes what I offer, his lips on mine, his tongue teasing, then slipping away. My lids drift shut. I’m adrift in sensation, in the warm liquid heat he builds in my veins.
He shifts closer.
The branch creaks. The leaves shake.
His fingers ease under the hem of my T-shirt, flattening against my bare skin above the waistband of my jeans.
My world shakes, heat coiling in the pit of my stomach, my breath stolen.
The branch creaks again.
Jackson draws back just enough that the tips of our noses still touch. “It’s going to break,” he says. Then he leans away and bounces up and down.
I wrap both hands around the branch and let out a sound somewhere between a squeak and a yell.
He grins at me as he swings to the next branch over. The cool air touches my skin. I already miss him.
“Jackson and Miki, sitting in a tree,” he says in a singsong voice. “K-I-S-S-I-N-G.”
I laugh. He never says or does what I expect. Maybe that’s part of his appeal.
The wind rustles the leaves again, stronger now. I shiver despite my jacket. And Jackson’s wearing nothing but flannel pajama pants. “You must be freezing.”
“Hot-blooded. And you just make me hotter.”
“Oh God,” I moan and roll my eyes.
He looks down at himself and sighs. “I need some clothes.”
“You think?”
“Wait for me,” he says and clambers through the open window.
Forever.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
AT 5:45 I CALL MY DAD TO TELL HIM I WON’T BE HOME FOR dinner.
At 5:46 I lean over the gearshift console between us and kiss Jackson, careful not to squish the white cardboard cupcake box on my lap. His fingers thread through my hair, and he kisses me longer and deeper than I expected. I’m not complaining.
“You taste like vanilla,” I say.
“Want another taste?”
Yes. But then I might never make it out of the Jeep because one kiss will lead to the next. . . .
He runs his thumb along my lower lip, his dark glasses hiding his eyes. But I know he’s staring at my mouth and that makes me shiver.
“No. Behave.” I heft the box. “Thanks for taking me to pick these up.”
“Glad to be of service.”
I push open the door. It swings out and back. All I need to do is grab my backpack and hop out. But I’m tempted to stay exactly where I am, to keep hold of the hours we just spent together. They felt so . . . normal.
No Drau. No battles. No game. Just Jackson and me, driving around, listening to music, talking. Laughing. Picking out cupcakes. Just a boy and a girl on a date. A real date. Our first.
“Have fun at Luka’s.” I reach into the backseat for my backpack, but the box on my lap makes it awkward.
“You sure I can’t tempt you to come with? Shoot zombies?” he asks.
I am tempted—to stay with him, not to shoot zombies—but I have something else I need to do tonight. Plus I have no intention of becoming one of those girls, one whose name gets combined with her boyfriend’s. If I can even call Jackson my boyfriend. Which I guess he is. Sort of. Or maybe not. Does he think he’s my boyfriend?
Could I be any more ridiculous?
I shake my head. “Not coming with you, for a bunch of reasons.”
He wraps a strand of my hair around his finger, slides it free, then wraps it again. “Yeah? Tell me one.”
“Because if I go with you, I might never want to leave your side. Because if I go with you, I run the risk of becoming your shadow, doing what you’re doing just because you’re doing it. Because if I go with you, it will be so easy to stop trying, to just float along in your wake, letting you make the plans and decisions, letting you choose where we go and who we see. I need to be me. Miki Jones. Not just Jackson Tate’s girl.”
“Wow,” he says. “Not sure how I should take that.”
I realize how harsh I sound and add, “Not that I think you want to make me into that girl, but because you’re you”—I spread my hands—“the way you are . . . I need to be even stronger. I need to have my own life.”
He tips his glasses up and stares at me.
Oh my God, did I just say all those things? They weren’t for him to hear. They were just for me to know. And they weren’t even really fair of me to say because despite how autocratic he is, he’s never made me feel like he wants me to be anyone but who I am.
He’s quiet for so long that I think I’ve seriously offended him. Then he grins and asks, “So . . . what you’re saying is that you want people to call us Mikison instead of Jamiki?”
I bury my face in my hands.
“I can’t believe I said all that. I’m so embarrassed.”
“Don’t be. I know who and what I am, Miki.”
“Overbearing?”
“Putting it politely? Yeah. Besides, I like knowing what you think.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “Even if what you think is really weird.” He peels one of my hands away from my face and ducks his head to look at me. “Still embarrassed? Okay, let’s pretend I just asked the question and you haven’t answered yet. Give me an answer that you’re comfortable with.”
“You mean, without clothes?”
He cocks a brow.
His fingers are warm on my skin. He’s tempting, but I slap his hand. “Not happening anytime soon.”
He laughs, low and rough. “No rush, Miki. I’ll wait.”
His hands slide to my waist, safer territory. I lift my face to his, my mouth to his. He takes what I offer, his lips on mine, his tongue teasing, then slipping away. My lids drift shut. I’m adrift in sensation, in the warm liquid heat he builds in my veins.
He shifts closer.
The branch creaks. The leaves shake.
His fingers ease under the hem of my T-shirt, flattening against my bare skin above the waistband of my jeans.
My world shakes, heat coiling in the pit of my stomach, my breath stolen.
The branch creaks again.
Jackson draws back just enough that the tips of our noses still touch. “It’s going to break,” he says. Then he leans away and bounces up and down.
I wrap both hands around the branch and let out a sound somewhere between a squeak and a yell.
He grins at me as he swings to the next branch over. The cool air touches my skin. I already miss him.
“Jackson and Miki, sitting in a tree,” he says in a singsong voice. “K-I-S-S-I-N-G.”
I laugh. He never says or does what I expect. Maybe that’s part of his appeal.
The wind rustles the leaves again, stronger now. I shiver despite my jacket. And Jackson’s wearing nothing but flannel pajama pants. “You must be freezing.”
“Hot-blooded. And you just make me hotter.”
“Oh God,” I moan and roll my eyes.
He looks down at himself and sighs. “I need some clothes.”
“You think?”
“Wait for me,” he says and clambers through the open window.
Forever.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
AT 5:45 I CALL MY DAD TO TELL HIM I WON’T BE HOME FOR dinner.
At 5:46 I lean over the gearshift console between us and kiss Jackson, careful not to squish the white cardboard cupcake box on my lap. His fingers thread through my hair, and he kisses me longer and deeper than I expected. I’m not complaining.
“You taste like vanilla,” I say.
“Want another taste?”
Yes. But then I might never make it out of the Jeep because one kiss will lead to the next. . . .
He runs his thumb along my lower lip, his dark glasses hiding his eyes. But I know he’s staring at my mouth and that makes me shiver.
“No. Behave.” I heft the box. “Thanks for taking me to pick these up.”
“Glad to be of service.”
I push open the door. It swings out and back. All I need to do is grab my backpack and hop out. But I’m tempted to stay exactly where I am, to keep hold of the hours we just spent together. They felt so . . . normal.
No Drau. No battles. No game. Just Jackson and me, driving around, listening to music, talking. Laughing. Picking out cupcakes. Just a boy and a girl on a date. A real date. Our first.
“Have fun at Luka’s.” I reach into the backseat for my backpack, but the box on my lap makes it awkward.
“You sure I can’t tempt you to come with? Shoot zombies?” he asks.
I am tempted—to stay with him, not to shoot zombies—but I have something else I need to do tonight. Plus I have no intention of becoming one of those girls, one whose name gets combined with her boyfriend’s. If I can even call Jackson my boyfriend. Which I guess he is. Sort of. Or maybe not. Does he think he’s my boyfriend?
Could I be any more ridiculous?
I shake my head. “Not coming with you, for a bunch of reasons.”
He wraps a strand of my hair around his finger, slides it free, then wraps it again. “Yeah? Tell me one.”
“Because if I go with you, I might never want to leave your side. Because if I go with you, I run the risk of becoming your shadow, doing what you’re doing just because you’re doing it. Because if I go with you, it will be so easy to stop trying, to just float along in your wake, letting you make the plans and decisions, letting you choose where we go and who we see. I need to be me. Miki Jones. Not just Jackson Tate’s girl.”
“Wow,” he says. “Not sure how I should take that.”
I realize how harsh I sound and add, “Not that I think you want to make me into that girl, but because you’re you”—I spread my hands—“the way you are . . . I need to be even stronger. I need to have my own life.”
He tips his glasses up and stares at me.
Oh my God, did I just say all those things? They weren’t for him to hear. They were just for me to know. And they weren’t even really fair of me to say because despite how autocratic he is, he’s never made me feel like he wants me to be anyone but who I am.
He’s quiet for so long that I think I’ve seriously offended him. Then he grins and asks, “So . . . what you’re saying is that you want people to call us Mikison instead of Jamiki?”
I bury my face in my hands.
“I can’t believe I said all that. I’m so embarrassed.”
“Don’t be. I know who and what I am, Miki.”
“Overbearing?”
“Putting it politely? Yeah. Besides, I like knowing what you think.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “Even if what you think is really weird.” He peels one of my hands away from my face and ducks his head to look at me. “Still embarrassed? Okay, let’s pretend I just asked the question and you haven’t answered yet. Give me an answer that you’re comfortable with.”
