Enjoy Your Stay (6 page)

I
CLOSE
the door on yet another well-meaning, casserole-wielding resident of Sugartown, and deposit it on the kitchen bench, along with the twenty other “I’m sorry your trampy wife got barbequed” dishes that won’t fit in the fridge. I pull a spoon from the drawer, pick up a particularly delicious-looking baked cheesecake, and start tucking in. I could murder a Midori right now, which is weird, because I’m pretty sure I would never want to touch that lolly water crap if I wasn’t pregnant.

I miss alcohol. I miss coffee. I miss a time when I could look at Jack, and not want to wrap my little hands around his throat.
Oh, right … that’s never happened, because he’s always made me feel homicidal.
I’m still so pissed about the way he kicked me out two nights ago, and at breakfast this morning, it took everything in me not to launch myself over the table and stuff his stack of pancakes down his throat until he choked.

I sigh, and push the cheesecake away before I slip into a food coma. I pray that nobody calls me on the fact that I almost consumed an entire family-sized cheesecake.
By myself
.
Right after dinner.
I can already feel my arse widening.

I should probably go and check on Bob. I’ve never seen him so quiet, not even when he lost Ana’s mum. Of course, the fact that he’s been nursing a bottle of bourbon since he woke this morning may have something to do with that. It’s kinda hard to form words when you’re finding the answers to the meaning of it all at the bottom of a bottle of Jack.

Ana’s tried speaking to him, taking the alcohol away—she’s tried everything but shoving Sammy under his nose, and dousing the man in freezing-cold water to get him to wake up to himself. She’s pacing, and plying Sammy with more Ana Cabanna Chocolate Banana Cream Surprise Pies than he could ever eat.

We all deal with grief in different ways. Ana’s way is to become Betty Crocker 2.0, and hypo-glycaemic everyone to death.

The others have gone to see what they can salvage from the house, leaving the decrepit pregnant woman, and the grieving widower alone. I wander down the hall and watch Bob from the doorway of Elijah’s old room. He looks haunted, and even in sleep he clutches the empty bottle like his life depends on it. I walk over, and pry it from his hand. I’ve never lost someone close to me before, so maybe his life does depend on it right now. I cover him over with a blanket, and then I switch off the light, close the door, and let him sleep it off.

I’m sitting watching
The Bold and the Beautiful
—shut up, it’s my one guilty obsession since they quit playing re-runs of
Friends
, and I’m dying to know which botoxed-within-an-inch-of-her-life old hag Ridge chooses to marry this week—when Jackson comes sauntering in, and plonks his annoying arse down, practically on top of me. He shoves his meaty fist into my bowl of freshly-popped popcorn, and contaminates it with all his cooties.

“Has he made a decision yet?”

“No. He’s still stringing them along like the typical, male fucktard he is.”

“Why the hell are they both so into him? I mean, the bloke’s like a hundred.”

“I don’t know.” I shrug, “he’s kinda sexy.”

“You have taste in your arse, Hols.”

“Yeah, well, I did sleep with you,” I joke, and then remember why that is so
not
funny. Truthfully, the way Jackson dismissed me the other night made me feel like nothing more than a dirty slut. Yes, yes, I asked for it, sort of. I mean, if you were to ask Jackson, it’d be all my fault, because I burst into his room with all the moxy of a Vegas showgirl, and threw my little slutsky self at him, and begged him to fuck me. And yes, okay, it might have gone down not too far from that, but the fact remains that I told him we should stop, and he grabbed hold of my hand and thrust us both headfirst over the cliff-face. Where exactly are we now? Fucked if I know. Probably the same place we’ve always been: walking a very fine, and tragically ill-fated line.

“We gonna talk about the other night?”

“What? You mean the fact that Sammy lost his mother, and Bob lost his wife?”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

“No. We’re not going to talk about it. We’re not going to have a repeat performance, and we’re not talking about it.”

“Okay then.” Jackson snatches up another handful of popcorn, and shovels it in his mouth, chewing with it half-opened.
I swear, one day I’m going to shove my fist in there, and then maybe he’ll learn to shut the hell up.
“So you don’t want me to eat you out right here on the couch?”

I drop the bowl, and popcorn spills out all over my lap. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and whisper, “I hate you.”

“No you don’t. You want to, but sweetheart, you got all kinds of feelings for old Jack, and none of them are based on hatred.”

“Would you please not refer to yourself as old Jack? You sound like a paedophile.”

“Night, Hols. Old Jack’s going to take a shower before hitting the hay. I might even forget to lock the door so you don’t have to kick it down.”

“I hate you,” I shriek as he saunters away chuckling.

“Sure, sweetheart, you just keep telling yourself that.”

I pick up the popcorn, and shove each piece back in the bowl, harder than I should. Then I switch off the TV and glare at the hall, as if my angry-girl, X-ray vision power can melt Jackson’s face off with a mere look. Bastard.

I will not go into the shower.

I will not go in the shower.

Oh, shit, I’m going in the shower
. I open the door and let the steam engulf me. I watch the water trickle over his body, down his back, and over the hard planes of his muscular hips and arse. God, it’s exactly like looking an angel in the face: frightening, powerful, and all-over forbidden, and that’s exactly why I find my feet moving towards him. I pull open the shower door, and step under the too-hot stream. My clothes are soaked, I’m probably panda-eyeing all over the place, and I’m sure I look like a drowned rat with my hair plastered to my head. Jackson produces the smile of a cocky, sadistic bastard who knew without a doubt that I’d wind up in here with him. I shove my hand over his mouth.

“No talking. If you utter a single a word I’m going to leave, and this never happens again. You go down on me, you fuck me, but you don’t say a word. Did you get that, you smarmy bastard, or do I need to repeat myself?”

Jack cocks his head to the side, and gives me a predatory smile as he drops to his knees. He yanks my soaked skirt and knickers down, and tosses them aside. They hit the tiled wall with a loud, wet slap, sending a shiver down my spine. Taking hold of my ankle, Jackson thrusts my leg up and over his shoulder, and brings his face down so its level with my pussy. His tongue laps at me, softly. Slowly. Gentle enough that I feel everything inside come screaming and tearing to life by comparison, and then his whole mouth engulfs me. I buck my hips against his face, tug on his hair as he sucks my clit into his mouth and slides two fingers inside me. It’s wet, and messy, and I’m so fucking hot that I feel like an electric current is burning through the soles of my feet, right to the centre of my core. I throw my head back, and yank at his hair as I scream my orgasm at the ceiling.

While I’m still praising God, Jackson comes to his feet, and swipes the back of his hand over his mouth. “Jesus Christ, Hols, you nearly suffocated me down there.”

“Shut up,” I command, and pull his mouth down to mine. I taste myself on his tongue, feel him smile against my lips, and then he lays claim to my body and mouth by sliding his hand between my thighs, kissing me hard as he brings me to the brink again.

He pulls away too soon, fists his hands in my hair and yanks my head back, exposing the line of my neck to him. “On your knees, darlin’. I wanna see you kneeling before me while I fuck your pretty mouth.”

I don’t even try to hide the smile that breaks out across my face. I have no idea how to deal with all the other stuff: motherhood, Jackson, the diner, Bob, Sammy—even Ana and Elijah. But this? This, I know how to do. I sink to my knees and take him in my hands, running the tip of my tongue along his length, the underside of his perfect head. He tastes of soap, and salt, and the scent? I don’t think anyone has ever smelled as damn edible as Jackson Rowe. He’s completely all male, and it’s so fucking hot that I’d gladly lick every inch of him without being commanded to. I make a tight fist around his cock and take him in my mouth, pumping my hand in time with my lips.

Jackson throws his head back against the wet tile, and fists his hands in my hair. “Easy, sweetheart. I still have to fuck that perfect cunt yet.”

I smile up at him, but it’s far from sweet. Jackson reads the challenge in my eyes, and laughs. “Ah, Hols, you’re gonna be death of me.”

I trace my tongue over the tip, and then take all of him inside my mouth, or as much as I can without gagging—because that wouldn’t be awkward at all. Jack grunts, tangles both hands in my hair, and pumps back and forth. I slip my hand between my legs and begin stroking my clit, while my other hand cups his balls.

“Fuck, I love it when you touch yourself,” he says, and pulls me up from the shower floor. I’m still wearing a soaking wet singlet top that Jack makes light work of when he just tears it down the middle. For a half-second I protest, because that was my favourite shirt, but then his mouth is on my nipple, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh, and I forget everything but the need to have him buried deep inside me.

I know it must be the same for him, because without a word he lifts me up, and I have no choice but to wrap my legs around his hips. He shoves me up against the tiles, and then he slams into me, over and over again, until we’re both clawing and tearing at one another.

After we’re sated, Jack sets me on my feet and begins soaping me up, washing away the trace of his sweat and scent on my skin. For the second time in as many days, I’m sort of numb. I just stand there, and let him clean me up, but when his palm skates the inside of my thighs and touches the sensitive flesh between my legs, I flinch.

Jack cocks his head to the side, and sighs. “Out with it, Hols.”

“Out with what?”

He raises a brow. “Can’t bullshit me, remember?”

“I’m fine.” I shove his hand away, and turn into the warm spray.

“This doesn’t have to be weird. How many times we ridden this pony now? You and I make sense, because we’re not attached to one another. We can fuck, and still keep all that romantic bullshit separate.”

I bite my lip. Take a deep breath against the tsunami tide of emotion threatening to crash over me. It doesn’t work. All the fears I’ve been burying since I first saw that little plus sign glaring back at me from the pregnancy test come rushing to the surface.

“Not anymore we can’t,” I say, and instantly regret it, because the wary expression on his face makes me want to punch myself in the vagina. “I’m about to be a mum, Jack. You know what that means? Stretch marks, and poo, sleepless nights, and saggy boobs. And crying, lots and lots of crying. I shouldn’t be fucking my roommate in the shower. I should be going to those bullshit prenatal classes, and watching videos of women pushing babies through their flabby snatches, not sticking penises in mine.”

I suck in a breath through clenched teeth to keep from crying. I’m almost afraid to look at Jack’s face, but I do anyway because I have to know how he feels about all I’ve just said. I stare into those blue eyes that are capable of conveying so much—even when he thinks his poker face is indecipherable—and I’m met with impassiveness. I don’t know what I was expecting, but that was not it.
Why isn’t he freaking out right now? Or comforting me? Or at the very least showing some indication that he heard what I just said?

“How do I do this? I don’t know how to do any of this. I don’t know how to take care of a kid. I’m still a fucking kid myself.” A sob tears from my throat, and I struggle to reel it in. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m one step away from losing my shit altogether, and ugly-crying all over the hottest dude I’ve ever banged, so I spin around and stick my face under the warm spray.

I startle when Jackson wraps me in his arms, and pulls me back into his chest. Then he kisses my neck, and says, “You’re gonna be a great mum, Hols. This kid’s gonna be lucky to have you. I’m kinda jealous of the little brat.”

I give a half-hearted laugh. “I’m pretty sure breastfeeding isn’t as fun as it sounds, Jack.”

“I’m serious. You got this, sweetheart. And you’ve got me for as long as you want me here.”

My heart kicks into overdrive hearing those words. As nice as they are, coming from his lips, I know that’s not quite true. How could it be? I’m pregnant with another man’s child. Pretty soon I’ll get bigger, and when this kid comes screaming and ripping its way through my lady parts and crying into all hours of the night, Jackson will be out. Because that’s what I would do. And, like he said, there are no secrets between us. There’s no hiding, and there’s no pretending we’re anything other than what we are.