to mine and kisses me. “Some other drunk guy let me through… I’m okay but I had to see you.”
Warmth flows through me that he feels this way. “I’ll make us a tea,” I say as I turn to walk towards the kitchen.
He grabs my hand, though, and halts me. Pulling me back to him, he presses his lips to mine and kisses me again, his tongue pushing inside, his mouth urgent. One of his hands slides under my shirt, up my bare skin to cup my breast while his other hand reaches inside my pyjama shorts to find my pussy. His touch is rough and demanding, and usually I would love it, but tonight it feels off.
I push him away and take a step back. Before I can say anything, he frowns and asks, “What?”
“I said I’d make us tea so you can talk. It seems like you need that,” I say softly. Even in his drunken state, I can see the pain in his eyes. My man is hurting so bad and I just want to help him.
He rakes his fingers through his hair. “Fuck, Presley, I don’t want to talk.”
“Jett, I get that, but at least come and sit with me. We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to; we can just sit and be.” I’m hoping he’ll open up at some point, though.
He reaches for me again and I realise why he came here tonight. And it hurts that sex is all he wants from me. “Sweetheart,” he murmurs as he tries to pull me to him, but I struggle against that.
“I know you’re hurting, Jett, and I understand you don’t want to talk it over, but I don’t think burying your pain in sex is the way to deal with this.”
Annoyance flashes in his eyes. “I’m not trying to bury my pain in sex but it would be nice to fuck my girlfriend for the first time in days. And then we can talk.”
I stare at him, hating the words that just came from his lips, but at the same time knowing he doesn’t mean them the way they sounded. This isn’t the Jett I know and love; this is the Jett who is drowning in grief and fighting against admitting to himself that his sister is never coming back. So I do the only thing I think will work for now. I go to him and cup his face with my hands. Then I kiss him and press my body against his. When I end the kiss, I say, “We don’t need to talk, baby. I hear everything you’re already saying and when you’re ready to say something else, I’ll be here to hear that, too. Okay?”
His eyes don’t shift from mine and I know he’s heard me; I know he’s understood everything I just said because I see the tears building there. But he blinks and stops them, and then he grunts as he lifts me and carries me into the bedroom.
I expect him to be rough but he places me on the bed as if I am the most fragile thing in the world. His hands go to his jeans and as he undresses, he keeps his gaze glued to mine. The intense way he watches me, with his grief blaring from his eyes, hits me deep in my soul, and I know I will give him whatever he needs tonight.
Once he’s naked, he leans on the bed and moves on top of me. His lips find mine and he kisses me, deep and slow. I welcome his tongue and I don’t even care that all I can taste is the bourbon he’s been drinking. The hold he has over me when his body and his lips and his hands are on me is something I’ve never experienced, and I am powerless to fight it.
My hands move along his skin, up his back, and into his hair as I wrap my legs around him. I’m still fully clothed but he’s in no rush to remove them; he’s focused intently on owning me through his kiss. And he does own me. I press my body up into his and kiss him harder; I need to be as close to him as I can be tonight.
His hands are on the bed, either side of me, and he ends our kiss and pushes himself up away from me. I watch as his gaze trails down my body, slowly, as if he’s devouring me