Jersey Six - Jewel E Ann Page 0,81
it was when he pulled her to him on their sides, chest to chest, legs scissored, her face buried in the crook of his neck, his hands idle in her hair. G used to hold her until she went to sleep. And sometimes if Fisher only took G to do his sick shit, Jersey would lie behind G in her bed and stroke G’s hair, hoping it would comfort her.
Fisher’s hands in Jersey’s hair made her skin crawl, but a weird part of her needed to do it to G. As if balancing the bad with the good.
The only difference … Jersey cried, not only for herself, but for G too. G never cried. She was silent, strong, and always there for Jersey. She wondered if Ian would be there for her like that. And if he were, would it be out of caring for Jersey or would it be out of pity?
“What time is it?” Jersey mumbled hours later, not having moved from her spot nestled into Ian’s body.
He kissed the top of her head. “Dinnertime.”
She imagined that moment being one she’d remember for the rest of her short life.
His body dwarfed hers like a protective shield.
The possessiveness—the false security—of his hands, one in her hair, the other low on her back.
The warmth. She’d remember the warmth of his body long after his heart stopped pumping blood.
But more than anything, she’d remember how the same person who took away her future, also filled a physical need and an emotional dream, if only for a moment in time.
In some ways … everything about him felt familiar, like she’d experienced something with him in another life.
A blink.
A whisper.
A flash.
It haunted her in ways she couldn’t explain.
“Coop?” Her lips pressed to his neck, lingering there until his pulse kissed her back.
“Hmm?” His large hand drifted just below her butt, pulling her an inch closer to him.
“Are you afraid of dying?”
“No,” he murmured, ghosting his lips along the top of her head before kissing it.
“Why not?”
“Because I’ve always thought living in fear has to be worse than death. We stop living when we let in that fear.”
Her head inched side to side.
“No?” He pulled back until he could see her face. “You disagree?”
“I think we only have fear when we have something in life that means enough to us that we can’t imagine losing it. That fear is how we know we’re alive. It makes us fight to stay alive.” Her eyes narrowed as her gaze shifted to the side. “I don’t think it has to be a person. Maybe it’s a purpose or a chance at something.”
Ian scraped his teeth along his lower lip, returning a sluggish nod, contemplating her words as they settled between them.
“Are you afraid of dying?”
“Yeah,” she whispered. “I think that fear is the only reason I’m still alive.”
“What do you fear?”
Her heart crashed against her ribcage, over and over. Did he feel it? Her fear came like a storm, desperate and destructive. “I fear dying without making things right in the world—in my world.”
Ian rolled over, settling his body between her legs, forearms next to her head. “My world has been shit lately, until I saw you in this bed a few hours ago.” He brushed his nose along her cheek. “Now everything feels right in my world.”
Several knocks pounded at the door. He grabbed her leg, hiking it up so he could push into her.
Jersey’s breath hitched as the ache of wanting him but needing to kill him feuded in the tiny space that housed the remnants of her conscience. “Th-the door …” She bit her lip and blinked heavily.
“Fuck off!” He yelled over his shoulder while gripping her leg tighter, sinking deeper into her.
The knocking stopped.
Everything about him haunted her. Jersey wondered how much of herself she would have to surrender to make her world right. So she let her conscience work that out while she kissed him.
The kiss. It always felt right. The only kiss that had ever felt right.
His touch felt familiar. A-million-lifetimes-ago familiar.
They were the perfect kind of wrong.
Jersey wiggled out of his arms before he had a chance to catch his breath. She sat on the edge of the bed with her head down.
“You okay?” He rested his head on his propped-up arm. Ian didn’t know how to describe sex with Jersey other than a war of sorts, maybe between them, maybe between her mind and her body.
Anger.
Anguish.
Addiction.
They screwed like junkies—powerless to the pull, in denial of the effects, and destined