And . . . she’d felt no little amount of relief.
Not her. Not her. Not—
He’d gone still when her lips had touched his, rigid like a metal statue, his hands at his sides, their bodies not touching except for their mouths. But now he unfroze and exploded into a flurry of motion that sent all thoughts of idiocy and relief and not her from her mind.
Because this was Jackson, and this was her . . . and this had never been their problem.
His hands came up, one clamping onto her hip, the other sliding up her spine to weave into the messy ponytail at the base of her neck that was containing her riotous brown curls. A second later that elastic disappeared, and his fingers were combing through her hair, the pads resting against her scalp.
God, she’d missed that, missed him cradling her against him, angling her head just slightly so their lips were perfectly aligned. Missed how just the touch of his mouth against hers somehow righted everything in the universe.
Then his tongue brushed against the seam of her lips.
She didn’t think, didn’t hesitate, just parted and let him in. Their tongues tangled and stroked. He tugged her more firmly against his body and then they kissed and kissed and kissed. Eventually, though, he started to slow the flurried movements of his tongue, began to loosen the grip on her hip, ease his hand from her hair.
No.
She didn’t want him to stop, to slow, to pull back.
She leaned in, throwing her arms around his neck, plastering herself against his chest.
He tore his lips away. “Mol—”
“Kiss me, Jackson. Make me forget.”
A long moment of hesitation, his deep chocolate eyes locked onto hers, but then she tilted her pelvis, brushed against the hard length of his erection, and he groaned, banded his arms more tightly around her then dropped his head.
Lips on lips.
Hard against soft.
Duel moans. Hers because this was as right as she’d felt in the last four years. His because . . . well, she hoped he felt an inkling of the same.
But Molly didn’t stop to process or think. She weaved her hands into his hair, climbed up his body, wrapped her legs around his waist, and kissed him. She nipped at his bottom lip, tilted his head, swept her tongue deep to taste the spiced heat of his mouth.
The flavor of the cinnamon gum he preferred.
The bitter tang of the coffee he must have drank that morning.
The faintest hint of mint from his toothpaste.
Ambrosia.
Jackson.
Right.
He straightened from the desk, lifting her into his arms and spun, shooting an arm out, sending her keyboard clattering to the floor, dumping the cup of pencils, the small wooden cylinders hitting the tile with a series of rapid tap tap taps. The next second she was on her back, splayed out like she was a plate of chocolate cookies placed in the center of a group of very hungry, PMS-ing women.
Hot eyes, reddened lips. An erection outlined by the thin material of his slacks.
She wanted him, wanted him to make her feel like she used to, wanted to forget everything that had happened.
For one moment, she just wanted to feel good.
“Mol—”
“Fuck me, Jackson,” she said, heart pounding, breaths coming in short bursts. Her need was on a razor’s point, almost painful. This close to him, so long since she’d felt anything as remotely strong as the pull they had when they were together. “I need you to just fuck me.”
His fingers tightened on her hips, jaw tightening. “That’s not—”
“Help me,” she moaned. “Help me forget.” She wrapped her legs around his waist, drawing him close.
He groaned, thrust against her then stopped, head hanging, breath in rapid gusts. “Baby, we—”
“Please.” She reached for him. “Please, Jackson.”
Only the briefest hesitation before he bent, lips pausing a hairsbreadth from hers. “Okay, baby.” He brushed her mouth. “I got you.”
He reached for the button of her jeans, flicked it open, and slid his hand inside.
“Oh fuck,” she moaned. That hot, roughened palm sliding under her underwear, fingers slipping through her wet pussy was the best ever.
Well, until his thumb circled her clit and pressed.
Hard.
She arched off the desk, nipples beaded and aching, moisture pooling between her thighs, which kept trying to spread but were hindered by the stiff material of the denim. Jackson slipped his hand free, and she made a noise in protest, but just as the sound passed her lips, he reared back and yanked off her sneakers.
They hit the floor one after another, were followed by her jeans, by her underwear.
And then Jackson was on his knees, shouldering her thighs apart, mouth descending . . .
“Fuuuck,” she breathed, head clonking back against the desk.
No one could tongue fuck her like Jackson could.
He slid his tongue through her labia, stopping to suck at one spot on the right side that never failed to make her squirm and groan, to ratchet her arousal to epic proportions before continuing up, kissing and licking . . . and sucking her clit like it was a hard candy he was determined to finish before the principal caught him with the sweet treat between his lips.
I can’t wait to get my tongue on your sweet treat.
What should have been the cheesiest, worst line in the history of all lines, sent heat skittering down her spine for a second time.
He had his tongue on her and when he murmured, “So fucking sweet,” against her pussy, Molly imploded.
Just that easily.
Because with Jackson, it had always been heat and speed, ease and comfort, allowing herself to be swallowed by the wave of his presence.
Pleasure exploded from her center, flying through her limbs, pulsing outward, filling her with fire. She moaned loudly and found his hand covering her lips to stifle the sound, even as his tongue coaxed her through to the other side, gently caressed her down from the precipice.
That wave covered her, comforted, even as it sucked her under.
It was only when he reached for her panties and started to tug them over her feet that she realized what he was about.
Stopping.
“Jackson,” she said.
“I’m going, baby.”
Was he fucking kidding? He was going to blow back into her life, eat her out like it was his fucking job, and then leave her wanting him?
No.
Not this time.
She was driving this.
And she wanted the man’s cock inside her.
Maybe it was selfish. Maybe it was using him. Maybe she was pissed and hurting and overwhelmed and this was the stupidest thing she could do.
But fuck it all.
She’d spent too long being unselfish with this man.
For once, she could reach for what she wanted.
For once, that could be okay.
Molly moved, kicking off the underwear, pushing off the desk, and grabbing the front of Jackson’s button-down. She yanked him against her and rose up to slant her lips across his.
He kissed her back and it was all teeth and tongue, nipping and stroking, sparking her sated desire back into an inferno. He grabbed her hips, pulling her snuggly against him, grinding the hardness of his cock against her.
She reached down, opened the button of his slacks, yanking at the zipper, fighting with the material until . . . finally.
His cock was hard and scorching her hand.
Molly shoved at his pants, getting them past his hips before lifting a leg and wrapping it around his waist, angling him until he was positioned just right.