Page 7 of Jessa & Jaxon (What Happens In Vegas #1)

I’m on fire, every nerve ending in my body alight with sensation. Jaxon’s mouth and hands have set me ablaze, and I can’t get enough. I need more. I need him.

I reach for him, pulling him to me. I taste myself on his tongue. It’s dirty and hot and I want more.

“Jaxon,” I pant between kisses, my hands fumbling with the waistband of his sweats. “I need you inside me.”

He groans, grinding against my hip. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” I say, my voice steady and sure. “I’m sure.”

He stands up, pulling me with him. Our bodies press together, our mouths meeting in a hungry kiss. His hands travel my body, squeezing my ass, my breasts, as if he can’t get enough of me.

I know the feeling. I can’t get enough of him either.

We stumble our way to the bedroom, a tangle of limbs and lips and tongues. His shirt comes off, tossed aside carelessly.

My hands explore the hard planes of his chest, his abs, his shoulders. He’s all muscle and heat, and I can’t wait to feel him inside me.

He kicks off his sweats and boxers quickly. I catch a glimpse of his shaft, hard and ready, before he presses me back onto the bed. His mouth finds my breast, sucking and nipping at the sensitive peak.

He slips a finger inside me, then another, his thumb circling my clit. I buck against his hand, my body seeking more, seeking release.

“I want to be inside you when you come.”

He shifts, moving off me. I whimper at the loss of contact. But he’s not gone for long.

Grabbing a condom from his wallet, he tears it open before rolling it onto his length. Then he’s back, his dick poised at my entrance.

But he doesn’t push inside me. Not yet. He flips me over, pulling me up onto my knees. I glance back at him, a question in my eyes. His gaze is locked on my ass.

“You have a tramp stamp?”

His fingers trace the small tattoo at the base of my spine, a butterfly I got on a whim years ago.

“Is that a problem?”

He shakes his head, his eyes darkening. “Not at all,” he says. “It’s fucking hot.”

Jaxon grips my hips, his cock pressing against my entrance. I push back against him, feeling him slip inside me, inch by delicious inch. He’s big, filling me completely, stretching me in the most incredible way.

Jaxon begins to move, his hips thrusting against mine, his cock sliding in and out of me. I grip the sheets, my body moving in time with his, meeting each thrust with one of my own. The sensation is intense, pleasure coursing through me with each movement.

His gaze is on me, hot and intense, watching as his cock moves in and out of me. It’s sexy, and I love it.

Jaxon leans forward, his mouth finding my ear. “You feel so good,” he breathes. “So tight, so wet. I could fuck you like this forever.”

His words send liquid heat to my core. His hand slides around my hip, finding my clit, his fingers circling the sensitive nub. I whimper, my body tensing as pleasure becomes me.

“Come for me, JJ.” His voice is low and commanding. “I want to feel you come around my cock.”

Those words push me over the edge. My body tightens, trembling as overwhelming pleasure rolls through me. I cry out, my hips bucking against his, my body milking his as I come.

Jaxon groans, his body tensing behind me. His thrusts become faster, harder, his fingers digging into my hips. Then he’s coming too, his penis pulsing inside me, his breath hot against my neck.

We collapse onto the bed, a tangle of limbs, sweat and satisfaction. He pulls me into his arms, his body spooning mine, his mouth pressing soft kisses to my shoulder.

“I should get cleaned up,” I murmur, reluctantly extracting myself from his embrace.

His fingers encircle my wrist, like he already knows I won’t resist. “Come back.”

Looking back at him, I take in his tousled hair and semi-erection. My body responds instantly, wanting him again despite the pleasant ache between my legs.

“I will,” I promise, and I’m surprised to find I mean it.

In the bathroom, I brace my hands against the sink, exhaling slowly as I take in my flushed cheeks, messy hair and the faint, unmistakable marks forming along my neck. It was all evidence of how thoroughly I’d been devoured.

I should feel regret, or at the very least, a sliver of worry, but as I press cool fingertips to my swollen lips, all I feel is the lingering heat of his mouth and the quiet, undeniable fact that I don’t regret a damn thing.

When I step back into the bedroom, the first thing I notice is the empty space I left behind, the sheets slightly rumpled, one of Jaxon’s arms stretched across the mattress. The sight does something strange to my chest.

It would be easy to grab a pillow, to build a barrier between us again, to reclaim the careful distance I’ve been clinging to for days. But instead, I slip beneath the covers as if I can somehow trick my own mind into believing this is temporary.

The moment I settle, his arm finds me, pulling me in. I allow my body to sink into the warmth of his, closing my eyes as he murmurs something unintelligible against my hair.

I shouldn’t find it endearing. I shouldn’t find him endearing. But with the storm raging outside and his warmth enveloping me, I can’t help but wonder how it would feel to sleep like this for the rest of my life.

With that unsettling thought, I drift into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The acrid scent of something burning jolts me awake, sending a rush of adrenaline through my system before my brain even has time to catch up. The sheets beside me are cold, the space where Jaxon had been now empty, and for one disoriented second, my mind scrambles to put the pieces together.

Then the smell intensifies, thick and unmistakable, and panic kicks in.

I throw the covers aside and reach blindly for the first thing I can find—Jaxon’s t-shirt. It’s soft, oversized and falls past my thighs. I rush down the hallway, mentally preparing for whatever disaster awaits me.

What I find is Jaxon, shirtless and cursing, waving a dish towel frantically at a smoking pot on the stove. The kitchen is hazy with smoke, the smell of burned food overwhelming.

“What are you doing?” I demand, coughing slightly.

He spins around, looking sheepish and frustrated in equal measure. “Making dinner,” he explains, gesturing to the blackened mess in the pot. “But the water boiled way faster than I expected.”

I step closer, peering into the pot. What appears to be the charred remains of spaghetti noodles are stuck to the bottom, smoking and filling my apartment with the smell of culinary disaster.

“You burned pasta?” I repeat, torn between disbelief and reluctant amusement as I take in the blackened disaster clinging to the bottom of my once perfectly functional pot.

Jaxon huffs a breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “In my defense, pasta is a lot more complicated than it looks.”

“Boiling water is complicated?”

He shoots me a glare, but there’s a grin lurking at the edges of his mouth. “It is when you fall asleep. And when no one warns you water evaporates quickly.”

I should be annoyed. My apartment smells like a failed chemistry experiment, my best pot is probably ruined, and my deep sleep was interrupted by the scent of impending disaster.

But then I look at him, barefoot, shirtless, standing in my kitchen with the expression of a man who just got his ego knocked down a peg by a pot of spaghetti. Before I can stop myself, laughter bubbles up from my chest.

“You think this is funny?” he asks, his expression shifting from embarrassment to indignation.

“I think it’s hilarious,” I admit, my laughter growing. “The great Jaxon Jamison, thwarted by spaghetti.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, fighting a smile. “I was trying to do something nice.” He takes a step closer. “You were sleeping peacefully, and I wanted to surprise you.”

The thoughtfulness of the gesture cuts through my amusement, leaving something warm and tender in its place. In all my past relationships, I can’t remember anyone ever wanting to surprise me with a home-cooked dinner.

“Well,” I say, softening, “the idea was nice, even if the execution was catastrophic.”

I move to open the windows, letting the cold air in to clear the smoke. Jaxon takes the ruined pot to the sink, running water over the blackened mess. The sizzle of hot metal meeting cold water fills the kitchen.

“I think your pot is a goner,” he says ruefully, examining the scorched bottom.

I come to stand beside him, our shoulders brushing. “It’s just a pot.”

He looks down at me. “You’re not mad?”

“No.”

His gaze drags over me, committing every inch of exposed skin to memory. “If I’d known you’d look this good in my shirt,” he muses, “I would have woken you sooner.”

The heat in his words sends a flush through me, warming my skin despite the cold air from the windows. I’m suddenly intensely aware of our state of undress—him in boxers, me in only his t-shirt.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” he asks, stepping closer until my back is against the counter.

“Like you want to devour me.”

His smile is slow and predatory. “What if I do?”

Before I can respond, he kisses me. My body reacts before my mind catches up, molding into him as his hands slide down, gripping my thighs with effortless strength.

In one smooth motion, he lifts me onto the counter, spreading my legs. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer, all thoughts of burned pasta forgotten.

His hands find their way under the shirt, tracing patterns on my skin. My own hands explore the muscled expanse of his body. I can’t get enough of him.

“We should stop,” I whisper, but my hands fist in his hair as his lips graze my neck.

“Should we?” he asks. “Or is that just what you think you’re supposed to say?”

I don’t want to stop. I want more of this—more of him, more of us together, more of the way he makes me feel desired and cherished.

“No,” I admit. “I’m starving.”

“Okay.”

He lowers me down from the counter but doesn’t step back immediately. Instead, he keeps his hands on my waist, holding me close.

“Perhaps you can teach me to make pasta?” he suggests. “Then later we can burn your sheets.”

I laugh, wrapping my arms around his neck and standing on my toes to press a kiss to his lips. “That sounds perfect.”