But screw that. I’m a writer, for God’s sake. An author. I’m in this world to experience it and turn those experiences into stories. How the heck am I supposed to do that if I don’t let go for once and live?
My little burst of energy is cut short when I see the tall figure clad in a dark suit leaning against the wall. I can only see his back and his broad shoulders, but I know in an instant who it is. Jackson Pierce.
One look at him and my stomach is a ball of ice. Before I know what’s happening, I’m heading back the way I came, running as fast as my feet will take me, jumping down two steps at a time, gasping in air like I’m a marathon runner at the end of a race. When I finally reach the bottom of the stairs and stand in front of the door, I stop, leaning my forehead against the door. I force myself to breathe slowly, letting my head hang as I gather my thoughts.
“Come on, Bri,” I whisper to myself. All I have to do is pretend I’m in one of my books. Pretend I’m the character and Brianne is somewhere above, tapping fingers at keys and making an ordinary, forgettable person into someone special. Someone who takes risks and doesn’t hesitate. Someone who is brave and strong.
I turn slowly, looking at the stairs. I take each step with slow, measured strides, ignoring the way my heart races, ignoring the tornado of doubt and fear swirling in my mind, ignoring everything. I only focus on being somewhere else. I’m outside, looking in, because this is what I want. Right?
I stop short on my way back up the stairs because two men in dark coats are coming down. Considering this is supposed to be a female only dorm, it’s enough to draw my attention. That, and the fact that both men look to be in their thirties. Maybe they are friends with Jackson? I don’t think long on it because they move aside to let me past, but I don’t like the way they leer after me at all.
I step back into the hallway and head straight for Jackson.
He notices me when I’m a few steps away. The sight of his handsome features and dark hair almost makes me stop. Almost. But I don’t stop, I keep moving until I’m just inches away from him, craning my neck to look up at him.
I’m about to say something brave and witty and amazing when he interrupts me with a kiss. He has to bend down slightly to crush his lips against mine and all my thoughts are blasted from my mind the instant our lips meet. His tongue is warm against mine and I’m enveloped by the perfectly masculine scent of him.
He pulls back, looking down at me with lidded, hungry eyes. “Let me in your room,” he says.
I fumble for my keys, reaching to put them to the lock before I even stop to think about what I’m doing. Let him in my room? What the hell am I doing? I’m about to protest, but I can feel him behind me. I can feel his tall, muscular frame and the thick weight of his expectation of obedience.
I pause, shaking my head and frowning down at my hands. I wasn’t really about to just do that, was I?
“I can’t just let you…” I trail off when he takes a step closer to me, practically pinning me to the door.
“You can’t, or you won’t?”
“Well, I mean, I--” I swallow hard. “I just don’t think it’s--”
“Don’t think then. Listen to your body.”
Jackson Pierce is a man used to getting what he wants. It’s in his every movement and the even tone of his voice. There’s a natural impulse to obey him, like pulling your hand away from a hot stove. Obey first, ask questions later. Except I’m not even sure it would be safe to ask him questions. One look at his steely, hard eyes and I’m not sure I even feel safe being alone with him in my dorm, yet I am sliding the key into the lock and turning it.
It all happens in a haze, like things are moving at the speed of light and standing still at the same time. I can’t catch my bearings. I feel like I’m floating somewhere far away, watching this all happen to someone else. Which was my plan, wasn’t it?
He follows me inside, hands reaching for me. I flinch back, holding up a hand. “Just… Can we slow down for a second here?”
He narrows his eyes and his nostrils flare. It’s a look that says he’s not used to being asked to wait or slow down. Of course he’s not. I’m probably the only girl on the planet dumb enough to be hesitating in a situation like this with a guy like him.
“What’s the problem?” he asks.
“The problem? I don’t know, maybe that you can’t just show up and kiss a person and then demand that she let you into her room, for starters.” My voice is weak and breathless, but I don’t let up.
“Seems like I can and I did,” he says, taking a step closer. “You also gave me your room number. Remember?”
I close my eyes, trying to gather my thoughts, which is much easier to do when I don’t have to look at him. “If I agree to meet you again. Somewhere public,” I add, “will you leave?”
“You want me to leave?” he asks. He’s so close I can feel the heat of his breath on my neck.
No. I don’t want you to leave. “Yes.”
He chuckles. “Suit yourself. I’ll pick you up tonight at seven.”
It’s not a question or a request. It’s a simple statement of fact. I nod my head, because what else can I do? It’s only when I open my eyes that I realize how embarrassingly messy my dorm is. There’s a tipped over basket of laundry I still haven’t put back up from two days ago, and bras, panties, and thongs are spilling all over the ground, just beside his feet.
Jackson turns to leave, but pauses, kneeling to pick up a white thong between his thumb and forefinger. “This yours?”
I reach to snatch it from him, face burning hot as I do. “Yes!” I snap. “Put it down.”
“Nah,” he says, stuffing it in his jacket pocket with a smirk. “I think I’ll hang on to these. Collateral so you don’t try to stand me up.”
I bite my lip as he leaves, closing the door behind him. I realize I’m still gasping for breath, and I don’t think it’s from my mad dash down the stairs a few minutes ago. I think he just has that strong of an effect on me. I do know one thing, the heat and tingle that runs from my belly down between my legs has nothing to do with the temperature in the room. Watching him take a pair of my panties like that… Knowing that he wants something so intimate of mine to keep. God. I don’t know why that’s turning me on so much, but it is.
I set my laptop down and sit in front of it, typing out a frenzy of words before the sex scene in my story. I lose track of time as my fingers bang out word after word. When I’m done, I read back over it, realizing I’ve practically written my own experience word for word, emotion for emotion into the book, just changing the names. I keep reading it over and over, almost in shock that it came from my mind. Even though I haven’t reached the sex scene yet, it’s like an enormous weight has already been lifted off my shoulders.
It worked.
The only reason I can’t write this stuff is because I haven’t experienced it myself. And with that simple realization, I feel my reservations toward Jackson start to crumble. Maybe it’s not moral. Maybe it’s not even civilized. But I’m going to go to dinner with him, and I’m going to find out how to end this scene in my book.