Enjoy Your Stay (2 page)

O
NE OF
these days, I’m going to kill Jackson Rowe.
I sit and watch the cereal roll around in his mouth, and it dawns on me that he reminds me of a camel: big, stupid, but sort of fun to ride.

Jackson catches me staring, and winks before slurping the remaining milk from the bowl.
Maybe I’ll off him in the shower?
But then he’d be naked, and I’d likely slip and fall on that gigantic penis of his, and well, while the pregnancy hormones would be completely okay with that, I’d still be well and truly fucked.

“Whatcha doing today, Mamma?” he asks, dumping his bowl in the sink. God, I wish he’d stop calling me that. It’s weird. Weird, plus it kinda turns me on. Okay, so everything turns me on these days, but I’m blaming the demon-seed for that. It’s like as soon as Jackson Rowe—serial man-whore, and all-round bane of my existence—found out I was pregnant, he had to remind himself that I’m sullied goods by calling me
Mamma
in order to keep his hands off me. Well, screw you Mr I Can Still Get Laid Because I’m Not Growing A Life Form Inside Me. Screw you all the way to hell. Two can play at that game.

“Hmm, nothing much. I thought I might just hang around home, wax my bikini line, and then try out my new vibrator.” Jackson’s eyes go wide, his shoulders stiffen, and the coffee cup slips through his fingers, clattering to the floor with a loud
thwack.
Rich, black coffee splatters over the wood. It smells so good that I have half a mind to get down on all fours and lap it up like a cat with spilled milk. For a moment he does nothing but stare and lick his lips, and then he fires into action, collecting the dishrag from the sink and mopping up the mess before carefully picking up the pieces of his favourite cup. I hide my snigger behind my peppermint tea. “What about you, Jackarse?”

His eyes narrow at the use of my pet name. He hates it about as much as I do mine. “I’m gonna go get a haircut.” He pauses, because he knows that I know he slept with his slutty hairdresser, and for some reason he thinks I’m bitter about it. Holly Harris doesn’t do bitter. She does fifty different shades of pissed off, but she doesn’t do bitter.

Jackson’s clearly not getting the response he wants from that little dig, though.
News flash, Jackarse: it’s no damn secret you’re a giant slut
. Dave, the publican, even named a damn drink after him: The Jackson Rowe Special, opening more legs than a spreader bar since 1987.

A slow smile creeps across his face, and he breaks out into a grin bigger than the bloody Cheshire cat. “And then I thought maybe I’d mow the lawn.”

Crap
. Mowing the lawn means Jackson sweaty, and sans shirt. My insides tighten with longing. My cheeks turn pink.

Bastard.

The screech of my chair sliding against the floorboards sets my teeth on edge as I stand up, and take my cup to the sink. Of course, Jackson, being the douche-knuckle he is, doesn’t move over any, and so my shoulder brushes his arm as I stand rinsing the breakfast dishes. “Well, don’t strain anything.”

“You either.” He winks at me, and then strides his overconfident, yet incredibly sexy arse from the room. I collapse against the cupboards beside the sink, squeezing my thighs together to relieve some of the tension.

God, if he wasn’t such a pain in the arse I’d crash-tackle him to the ground, and ride that sexy bum through the floor.

Several hours later, I’m sitting on the loveseat and staring at that perfect arse as he pushes the mower around the yard. I sip ice-cold lemonade from a freezer mug, wincing as the condensation rolls down over my white knuckled grip and drips onto my bare thighs. He moves closer, heading towards the veranda and smiling with that stupid goofy grin. God, I probably look like hell; I certainly feel it.
What the fuck is he so damned happy about?

He shuts off the mower and bounces up the steps towards me. “Aww, you brought me a drink?”

“Ha! Not on your life, mister. This is the only thing I’ve held down since breakfast, and you’re not getting a single drop of it.”

“Come on, Hols, you don’t want me to taste it?”

“You sound like Elijah. Don’t you want me to taste your pie? Yuck! One more night of enduring those two, and I’m gonna fling that door open and hurl up my guts on the both of them.”

“Mmm, sexy.”

“It might save us from having to replaster. I swear to God if I have to hear him nailing her against the wall for another night, I’m going to choke someone. Probably you, because you’ll be the only person close enough for me to waddle my way over to.”

“Holly, you come and see me in the middle of the night to choke anything but my cock with your fist, and Ana won’t be the only one screaming.”

“Shut up, you pig.” I say and hold the frozen mug tight to my chest. The cold makes my nipples come poking out through my singlet to say hello. Jackson’s gaze immediately lowers, and he wets his lips before making out like he’s not some giant A-hole staring at my boobs. “I thought you were going to get that unruly mop cut?”

“I am, just wanted to do it once the lovebirds got back, that’s all.”

“So you weren’t hanging around hoping to catch a Holly Harris peep show, then?”

“Ha! More like making sure your skinny arse doesn’t fall over and break something trying to get back up again.”

“I don’t need a freaking babysitter, Jack. I’m pregnant, not an invalid.”

“Don’t get all pissy with me, young whippy-snippy. I’m not the one who can’t keep herself upright for a good portion of the day. Now, hand over that drink.” He holds his hand out, as though I’m actually going to give it to him.
As if
. “It’s bloody sweltering out here.”

“No! Get your own.”

“Give me the drink, Holly.”

“No.”

“Alright. I didn’t wanna have to do this, but you’re leaving me no choice.” Jackson stands up and walks towards me. His mouth is set in one of those smarmy grins that makes me feel stabby. He sidles right up beside me, leans in close and whispers, “Last chance.”

And yeah, I should totally just hand over the lemonade, but a part of me really, really wants to see what he does next. I glare defiantly, and shake my head. Jack smiles, and then reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. I’m completely thrown by the tenderness of the gesture, so I don’t react the way I should when he grasps my head with both hands and leans in closer.

I lick my lips.

My chest is practically heaving with excitement, breath coming too fast, too soon. Jack’s gaze dips to my cleavage, his lips part, his tongue darting out in an imitation of mine—and then he rubs his whole sweaty head all over my face, and down my torso. I’m covered in Jackson sweat—and so help me God, it smells so good I wanna lick it off his skin, and then my own, but mostly just his.

“You did not just do that!” I push him away, and act like I’m not chomping at the bit to have his big, sweaty body smother me from head to toe. What I wouldn’t give for a Jackson-Rowe shaped blow-up doll right now. And I know what you’re thinking: why use a doll when you could have the real thing, but this is Jackson-
freaking
-Rowe, people. The real thing pisses me off just as much as he turns me on, which is every other second of the day. “You’re disgusting.”

“You shoulda given me a taste, Hols.”

“You had a taste, two years ago. You went scurrying back to Tenterfield, and I never heard from you again.”

Okay, so maybe I do bitter after all … when the occasion calls for it.

His brows shoot skyward for a second, and then he covers his surprise by smirking and running his hands through his sweaty hair. Sweaty hair that I desperately wanna tug on as I shove his face between my legs.

Goddamn hormones.

“Huh.”

“Huh, what?”

“Well, this is the first time you’ve brought up the two of us fucking in months. You’ve been avoiding all talk of sex with me.”

“No I haven’t.”

“Yes, you have.”

“Have not.”

He moves closer, close enough for me to feel the heat radiating from his body, and smell the sweetness of sweat and sunshine on his skin. “You wanna do it again, don’t you?”

“Oh my God, would you give it a rest, please? We had sex, like, two times.”

“Hols, we might have had sex on two separate occasions, but I remember filling up that perfect pussy of yours way more than twice.”

“Really?” I frown, and pretend like my vagina isn’t about to combust with that little reminder. “Huh. Mustn’t have been very memorable.”

“Ah, you’re breaking my heart, baby.” he mocks, rubbing the centre of his sweaty chest. His long fingers graze one perfect nipple, and my eyes follow it closely.
Too
closely. A fact Jackarse is well aware of. “We both know you’re gaggin’ for it again, sweetheart, and it’s only a matter of time before you cave.”

“The only thing I’m gagging for is a hot shower, after you’ve marked me with your scent. I can practically feel the cooties multiplying, and seeking out orifices to invade.”

“Oh, I remember your orifices well.”

I shake my head. “You are all kinds of wrong.”

“And you’re all kinds of turned-on right now.” He winks, and walks backwards down the stairs. “Enjoy your shower, sweetheart.”

I mean it. One of these days, I really will kill Jackson Rowe.

I
PULL
into the drive behind Cade’s bike, and swipe a hand over my neck to rid any excess hair left over from my cut. The forty minutes in the Sugar Cuts Salon had to be one of the weirdest experiences of my life. My hairdresser, Chantal, is pretty spectacular looking: blonde, gorgeous, fake tits—but hey, I had no complaints—with legs that went on for days, and yeah, I tapped that once when I first moved to town, but she has a kid, and waking up to a six year-old staring at my Johnson the following morning as it’s erecting a monument beneath the sheets was enough to let me know I shouldn’t go there again. Ever.

Chantal likes to flirt. She’s also a nosey bitch when it comes to my sex life, but the mention of Holly had her jabbing so hard at my head with her scissors, I was afraid I’d leave sporting a new piercing. And, yeah, okay. I’m not an idiot. I saw the way my reflection lit up when I started talking about her. I don’t know why the fuck my face contorts into some fucking retarded Brady-Bunch grin at the mention of that troublemaking little shit’s name, but it does.

Holly always was a little spitfire in the sack. Even when she’d had no experience and therefore no idea what she was doing, the girl fucked like she was out to win gold for Australia. I’d thought about her a few times over the years—when I jacked off, when I saw another crazy-arse ranga going postal on somebody, and, weirdly, when I proposed to my one-and-only ex-girlfriend.
Yeah, how’s that for fucked up? Hey, Chelcie, just let me jam this expensive rock on your finger while I think of fingering another girl.