Page 4 of Jessa & Jaxon (What Happens In Vegas #1)

“That couch isn’t suitable for a child, let alone you,” I finally say, breaking the silence. “You’re sleeping in your bed.”

She’s been arranging and rearranging the same blanket for five minutes, her movements growing increasingly agitated. The candlelight catches the determination in her profile and the stubborn set of her mouth.

She doesn’t look at me. “I’ve slept on it before. It’s fine.”

“For a nap, maybe. Not for an entire night.”

“I’m not the one who crushed his sports car under a tree,” she mutters, smoothing the blanket for the hundredth time. “Besides, you’re the guest.”

I cross my arms, leaning against the doorframe. “A guest you’d rather not have.”

She straightens, pushing a plait away from her face. Even in the midst of our standoff, I can’t help noticing how the candlelight gilds her skin, turning it to burnished copper. The sight does dangerous things to my concentration.

“It’s one night,” she says impatiently. “Take the bed. Say thank you and don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

“No.”

Her brows snap together. “No?”

I step forward, closing the gap between us. “I’m not taking your bed, JJ. We’ll share. End of discussion.”

Her mouth opens, but I continue before she gets a word out. “Unless you’re worried about your self-control around me. What we did on the couch suggests it might be a valid concern.

Her eyes widen and her nostrils flare. “Fine. But we stay on our respective sides. And you wear clothes.”

“Were you expecting something else?”

Her brows lift before she schools her expression, but the quick flick of her tongue over her lips betrays her composure. By every law of logic, she’s beautiful when she’s flustered.

“Just establishing boundaries.”

“I’ll play along. For now.”

She watches me suspiciously for a moment longer before disappearing into the bathroom with a bundle of clothes. The moment she’s gone, I run a hand through my hair. This woman will be the death of me.

Sharing a bed with JJ while keeping my hands to myself will take more discipline than managing a hostile takeover. In Vegas, she was drunk. Tonight, there’s no alcohol, no excuses.

She called our marriage a drunken mistake, but I wasn’t nearly as drunk as she thinks. I remember how she looked at me, how her voice shook when she said “I do,” how her hand trembled when she signed that marriage certificate.

I could’ve stopped it. I should’ve stopped it. But I didn’t.

I hear the water running in the bathroom and try not to imagine her naked. I’ve never been a man who thrives on restraint.

I force my thoughts elsewhere. It’s a mental discipline I’ve honed since Mom’s passing. Speaking of family—I wonder how my father is managing.

I haven’t seen or spoken to dad in weeks. Our relationship had been strained long before that. I lost my mom to cancer when I was eleven, and in a way, I lost both my parents that day.

The storm outside rattles the windows, and I think of his small, weathered house on the outskirts of town, with the leaky roof he refuses to let me fix. Stubborn old man. Like father, like son, I suppose.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I dial his number. It rings five times, and I’m about to hang up when he answers.

“Yeah?” His gruff voice is exactly as I remember it. No greeting, no warmth.

“Hey, Dad. It’s Jaxon.”

“Got caller ID.”

Silence stretches for three beats. “Just checking in. It’s pretty bad out there.”

He grunts. I can picture him sitting in his recliner, the one Mom bought him twenty-five years ago, phone pressed against his ear, expression unchanged. Richard Jamison has perfected the art of emotional vacancy.

“Generator’s running.” Another pause. “You need something?” he asks.

“No, just... making sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine.”

The bathroom door opens, spilling steam into the hallway. And there she is, wrapped in coconut and jasmine, freshly scrubbed, looking softer than I’ve ever seen her.

“Dad, I should go. But call if you need anything, alright?”

“Don’t need anything.” He pauses, and for a moment I think he might say something else, something more. But then, “Watch out for downed lines.”

With that sage advice, he hangs up. No goodbye, no “take care,” definitely no “I love you.”

I stare at the phone for a second before slipping it back into my pocket.

“Everything okay?” JJ asks, hovering in the doorway. Her face is freshly washed, hair wrapped in a satin scarf, wearing an oversized t-shirt and flannel pajama pants. She looks young and vulnerable and impossibly beautiful.

“Yeah,” I say, shaking off the familiar weight that always settles on my shoulders after talking to my father. “Just checking on my dad.”

Something shifts in her expression. She’s aware of the strained relationship with my father. I’d spent many nights at her house with her brother Kamal when I was a teenager. She knows what he’s like.

“Is he alright?”

“Same as always.” I smile. “Grumpy and self-sufficient.”

JJ nods, and I see her hesitation, like she wants to say more but isn’t sure she should. We’re in uncharted territory here. Beyond our usual bickering into something that feels dangerously like genuine concern.

“He’s got a generator,” I add, filling the silence. “Better equipped for the storm than us.”

“That’s good.” She fidgets with the hem of her shirt. “My parents are out of town, thankfully. Dad would be trying to clear the whole neighborhood’s driveways if he were here.”

Mr. Smith was always ready with a helping hand, quick with a joke, and hadn’t questioned why I spent weeks in his home when I was a teenager.

“Your dad’s a good man,” I say simply.

She clears her throat. “Bathroom’s all yours.”

I enter the bedroom, taking stock of my territory. Her eyes track my movement, though she tries to hide her interest. I don’t bother concealing mine as I study her position.

She’s already under the covers on the far left side, rigid as a board, arranged as far from my side as possible.

Predictable and amusing.

“I left you a candle,” she says, nodding to the other nightstand. “In case you need to get up in the night.”

“Thanks.” I set my phone beside it and lift the blanket on my side. The mattress shifts.

JJ slides toward me involuntarily, her body stiffening the moment we touch. Gravity has never been so satisfying.

“Stay on your side.”

“I am on my side,” I reply, amused. “It’s not my fault your mattress has a dip in the middle.”

“It does not.” She shifts, trying to put more space between us, which only makes the mattress dip further.

I turn on my side to face her, propping my head on my hand. “Relax, JJ. I don’t bite.” A beat. “Unless you want me to.”

Her sharp inhale is audible in the quiet room. “For the record, I’m perfectly relaxed.”

I raise an eyebrow, not bothering to hide my amusement. Every inch of her is coiled tight as a spring — from the rigidity of her shoulders to the tight grip she has on the edge of the blanket.

“Could have fooled me,” I say. “Your whole body’s so tense I could bounce a quarter off it.”

“Maybe I’m tense because there’s a six-foot-three arrogant man invading my personal space and making inappropriate comments.”

“Funny how you know my exact height.”

“I—” For once, the quick-witted JJ falters. “That’s not—”

I can’t help pressing my advantage. “And which comment was inappropriate, exactly? The biting one? Because that’s more of an offer than a comment.”

“Don’t you ever get tired?”

“Of what, exactly?”

JJ gestures between us. “The bickering.”

I consider her question seriously.

“No.” I shift closer, not touching, but letting her feel my presence. “Not with you.”

“Why?” Her voice is softer now.

I could give her the easy answer, the one that maintains our comfortable antagonism. Instead, I opt for truth.

“Because you’re the only woman who doesn’t back down. Women either want something from me or are afraid to challenge me.” I watch her carefully. “You’re different.”

JJ’s quiet for a long time, her eyes reflecting the dancing flame of the candle. “That’s because I saw you cry when your toenail fell off. Hard to be intimidated by someone after that.”

The tension breaks like a fever when I laugh in response. “Fair point.”

She laughs too, and something warm unfurls in my chest. These rare glimpses of connection beneath our barbed exchanges are what I’m fighting for.

“Goodnight, Jaxon,” she says softly, turning away to blow out her candle.

“Goodnight, wife,” I reply.

I hear her huff of annoyance and smile to myself. I extinguish my own candle, plunging the room into blackness.

As my eyes adjust, I become acutely aware of her presence beside me. The soft sound of her breathing, the faint warmth radiating from her body, the whisper of the sheets when she moves. She’s less than a foot away, yet the distance feels both infinitesimal and insurmountable.

I don’t know how long I’ve been lying here, listening to the storm outside and JJ’s rhythmic breathing beside me. Sleep eludes me, my mind too full of her scent on the pillows, her warmth just inches away, the memory of her lips against mine earlier.

The wind howls against the windows, but inside this bedroom, there’s a different kind of storm brewing.

I check the bedside clock in the darkness—12:17 AM. Great.

Beside me, JJ stirs. She’s been restless for the past hour, shifting positions, sighing softly. The temperature in the apartment has dropped considerably as the night progressed. I’m comfortable enough in sweatpants and t-shirt, but I notice JJ pulling the blankets tighter around herself.

A particularly strong gust rattles the window, and she shifts again. This time, her body moves toward mine.

Her leg slides over, tangling with mine. Her arm drapes across my torso. Her breath warms my neck.

I freeze, afraid to move, afraid to breathe too deeply.

She’s pressed against me now, the length of her body aligned with mine, soft and warm and completely unaware.

The satin of her headscarf brushes my chin, and her hand rests directly over my heart, which is currently trying to punch its way out of my chest.

“JJ?” I whisper, not wanting to startle her, but knowing I should wake her before she realizes our position and accuse me of crossing her boundary.

She makes a small sound in the back of her throat and burrows closer, her fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt. The leg draped over mine slides higher, settling between my thighs and sending blood rushing south.

Fuck.

I should wake her. I should gently disentangle our limbs and return her to her side of the bed. That’s what a gentleman would do. That’s what someone respecting the boundaries of this fragile truce would do.

But I’ve never claimed to be a gentleman. And every cell in my body is screaming at me to pull her closer, to eliminate what little space remains between us.

I remain perfectly still, suspended between desire and restraint, while my mind races through scenarios. If I wake her, she’ll be embarrassed, defensive. If I don’t wake her, and she wakes naturally to find herself wrapped around me, she might accuse me of taking advantage.

There’s no winning move here.

She murmurs something unintelligible and shifts again. Her face tilts up, lips parted, and it takes every ounce of self-control not to lower my head those few inches to capture her mouth with mine.

I bring my free hand up to brush a plait that’s escaped her scarf. The gesture feels more intimate than any of our other exchanges. This unguarded moment where I can simply look at her without her defenses up, without her creating distance.

“What am I going to do with you?” I whisper into the darkness.

“Jaxon,” she mumbles, and for a terrifying second, I think she’s awake. But her eyes remain closed, her breathing deep and even.

She’s dreaming of me. The realization makes me happy.

Her unconscious body recognizes what her conscious mind fights. She belongs with me, against me, beneath me and on top of me. Her surrender in sleep is just a preview of what’s coming. I’ve built an empire with less promising foundations than this.

I adjust the blankets around us, cocooning us against the cold. My thumb traces small circles on her hip.

JJ shifts, her leg sliding higher between mine. I grit my teeth against the surge of desire. This is torture of the sweetest kind.

“Mmm, warm,” she murmurs, face pressed against my neck, words slurred with sleep.

“I’ve got you,” I whisper, allowing my arm to wrap more securely around her.

In the morning, she’ll be mortified to find herself tangled with me. She’ll retreat behind antagonism. But right now, there’s nowhere else in the world I’d rather be than in this modest bed, in this powerless apartment, with this woman who has unknowingly held power over me for most of my life.