Page 56 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector

I let out a breathy laugh. “They were really kind. Russo’s wife is hilarious. And Elena, I could’ve talked to her for hours.”

“Ready to head in?”

Inside, the house is still. Peaceful. A subtle shift from the energy of the dinner. I slip off my heels near the entryway, toes curlinggratefully into the soft rug. Jackson sets his keys in the bowl by the door, then shrugs out of his coat. I follow suit, draping mine over the banister.

“Miss Taylor said the boys were out cold by eight,” he says, his voice just above a whisper as he heads towards the kitchen.

I smile, but it’s faint, distracted. I’m still thinking about the way his hand hovered at the small of my back at dinner, like it belonged there. About how it felt when Elena leaned in and whispered, “You two are adorable.”

I follow, the soft tap of my bare feet against the floor the only sound. He heads straight to the counter, grabbing two glasses and filling them with water like it’s second nature. I watch the way his shoulders shift beneath his dress shirt as he moves. Broad, solid, strong. Unshakable.

He hands me a glass, his fingers brushing mine, sending goosebumps over my skin. He leans against the counter, watching me with an intensity that thickens the air.

I hesitate by the island, suddenly unsure what to do with my hands. “Thanks for inviting me tonight,” I say.

“I liked having you there tonight,” he murmurs.

There’s something in his voice that wraps around me. Something steady, grounding. I nod, feeling warm despite the cool tile under my feet.

I take a sip of water, trying to cool the sudden heat in my chest as I recalled him introducing me as his girlfriend tonight.

I hesitate, the wordgirlfriendechoing in my mind since Jackson introduced me to the team.

When I glance up at him and his piercing blue eyes lock onto mine, I forget what I was about to say.

For a few moments, we just look at each other.

I should probably say goodnight and head upstairs, but my feet don’t move.

Jackson pushes off the counter slowly, crossing the kitchen until he’s only a step away. Not touching. Just close enough that I feel his presence like a current in the air.

He’s right there, barely a breath away, and my heart thrums a little faster.

Neither of us speaks, and I’m not sure who moves first.

Maybe it’s him.

Maybe it’s me.

His fingers brush my jaw, hesitant, but I don’t pull away. I lean in, his thumb tracing my cheekbone. His eyes search mine, and I nod before I even realize I’m doing it.

Then he kisses me.

His hand slides into my hair, anchoring me. My fingers grip the front of his shirt, my body responding before my mind does.

When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing harder than we should be. His forehead resting against mine.

“Do you want to go upstairs?” he asks.

I could say no. I could retreat to the guest room and pretend the past few hours haven’t unraveled every line I thought I drew between us.

But I don’t want to.

“Yes,” I say, and my voice doesn’t even shake.

Jackson's hand is warm and sure as he leads me upstairs to his bedroom.

“Ava,” he murmurs, a low rumble that sends a jolt of heat straight to my core. I step closer, feeling the undeniable hardness of him, my body aching with want.