Page 22 of Just One Look

Jackson

Thunder rumbles in the distance as angry gray clouds eat up the blue sky. We’re walking in silence. An awkward silence after I insisted Maverick tell me whether or not he’d fucked Ridge and then shut things down when I snapped back to reality after he told me. I got mad at myself.

Mad at myself for asking in the first place.

Then mad at myself for immediately believing him when he said that nothing had happened. Because I don’t deserve Maverick’s honesty. Not when I’m not being completely honest with him.

I was deliberately vague about my reason for punching Ridge. I haven’t told him about my condition. I didn’t tell him Clancy was my grandfather. And I still haven’t told him that my family used to own the rescue center.

I have a feeling I’m not the only one mad at me. The way Maverick packed up our picnic made it pretty clear I’ve managed to upset him as well. Not to mention him walking a few paces ahead of me, not side by side like we were on the way out here. This bodes super well for the next twenty-four hours we’re stuck together.

Can anything else go wrong?

Several minutes pass, and then…a raindrop lands on my arm. Followed by another. And then another.

“Oh, shit,”

I mutter. We’ve been walking back for less than an hour. I wasn’t keeping track of how long we hiked for, but at a guess, I’d say we’re not even halfway back yet.

“Don’t think we’re going to make it.”

Maverick looks up and makes a noise that sort of sounds like agreement but continues walking without saying anything. My oscillating moods are probably not making things any better. In the past twenty-four hours, I’ve yelled at him, insulted him, listened intently as he opened up to me, shared a bed with him, ogled him on at least two occasions, revealed personal details about my family, and acted like a possessive, jealous boyfriend having a completely unjustified freak-out. He must be starting to get sick of me by now.

I wish I could say I knew why I’m acting like this, but I don’t.

I am so out of my depth with him, it’s not funny. I’ve tried so hard to hate him. To position him as the enemy. To view his wealth and power and motives with suspicion. And what does he do? He slowly but surely dismantles every objection, one by one by one, by being a good, decent, and honest person, leaving me with no choice but to face the one truth I’ve been trying to avoid for a while now—I really like him.

And if I’m ready to face that fact, I need to shoulder the responsibility for ruining what was a lovely picnic.

“Want to play a game?”

I suggest, the droplets turning into a light drizzle.

“No, thanks,”

he replies without looking back.

The increasing rain is making it harder to see, so I pick up my pace to catch up to him. “Why not?”

He grunts in frustration and mutters something under his breath that sounds an awful lot like.

“I’m sick of playing games.”

I could pretend not to hear it, but I can’t seem to let it go. It niggles away in my brain, gnawing into my better judgment until my stupid mouth blurts out.

“What is your problem?”

Maverick stops walking and glares at me.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

The can of worms is officially opened.

And because I’m an angry, frazzled idiot who’s confused by all the emotions Maverick is stirring up in me, I, not for the first time in my twenty-four years, speak without thinking.

“What? Just because I’m not throwing myself at you like I’m sure everyone else does. Must be hard to accept that not everyone falls under your rich-boy spell.”

“You know what, Jackson? Fuck you. I don’t deserve that. If you want to hate rich people and think we’re the root of all evil, knock yourself out. But I have been nothing but nice and accommodating to you the entire time.”

“Congratulations. Treating another human with base-level respect. Want an award?”

What the fuck is wrong with me? Things were going so well. I can kiss that truce well and truly goodbye now.

“Yeah, well. At least I’m in contention for that award,”

he says, raising his voice over the rain.

“Can’t say the same thing about you, can I?”

He takes off, and I chase after him.

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing. Forget it,”

he says, stomping angrily, jaw clenched.

“No. Say it.”

“Leave me alone, Jackson.”

There’s a sharp edge to his voice I’ve never heard in all the times we’ve battled. I may have really pushed him too far this time.

I fall back to give him some space, but I can’t shake his words out of my head. He totally nailed it. I’ve been so in my feelings about my worsening condition, angry at him for taking over the sanctuary, and confused by my attraction to him that I’m actually the one who hasn’t treated him with base-level respect.

And yet, despite that, he’s never once pulled out the boss card and reprimanded me. He’s never even threatened to fire me. Even when I was on the verge of resigning, he was pleading with me not to do something I’d regret later.

Guilt weaves through my body until it becomes unbearable.

“I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t hear me.

Probably because I took the coward’s way and murmured the words so quietly against the heavy rain, I could barely hear them myself.

I move briskly to get ahead of him and block his path, forcing him to stop. He’s all wet now. Battling against the heavy raindrops, I squint to see him properly. His wet brown hair sticking to his forehead in clumps. Rain dripping from his nose and chin. But it’s his eyes I’m desperate to see most of all, those deep blue eyes I was convinced were full of arrogance but are actually windows to the soul of a man capable of so much kindness and strength and resilience and love.

My hands find their way to his face, cupping him the way I did outside Bunny’s all those months ago.

“I’m sorry,”

I say, loud and clear enough for him to hear me even in the rain.

He holds my gaze with a fierce intensity.

“You’ve apologized before.”

“I know I have. And I’m going to again because you deserve it…and because I want to say it.

I’m sorry for our big fight yesterday. I’m sorry for being so pigheaded and quitting like that. I should have listened to you and calmed down before making any rash decisions. I’m sorry for that fucking to-do list. That was so wrong. It hurt you, and I was too stupid to think that it would. I’m sorry for making life harder for you in general. I’m sorry for not telling you I was related to Clancy earlier. I’m sorry for vomiting in front of you. I’m sorry for my sister possibly threatening your life. I’m sorry for being so up-and-down all the time. I’m sorry for…”

Oxygen whooshes from my lungs.

“…everything.”

The downpour intensifies.

We’re both trying to blink against it, but it’s futile. I bring my forehead to rest against his, partly to shield our eyes from the rain, partly because it feels so damn good to finally be touching him.

“You really thought you could get rid of me that easily?” he asks.

I squeeze my eyes shut, hating myself even more for ever thinking that was a good idea. “I did.”

“You really don’t know me at all.”

All I can see is his chest heaving and fat droplets of rain bouncing off his sneakers. He slides his hands around my midback, our foreheads still pressed together, my heart galloping like a racehorse.

“I’ve misjudged you.”

“You have.”

“I’m sorry.”

A beat passes.

And then.

“How sorry are you?”

I pull back. “What?”

His hands press into my lower back, forcing my body into his.

“I said, how sorry are you?”

“Um. Very?”

“Good.”

And with that, he shifts back half a step. His blue eyes are blazing with fire. Then he moves in nice and close, his lips closing in on mine.

“You wanted to play a game, let’s play a game.”

“Now?”

He nods, sending droplets of rain off the tips of his hair onto his shoulders.

“Yeah. Fuck, marry, kill. You can only do one to me.”

“I don’t think that’s how that game works.”

“New rules. Just invented them. Now, shut up and play. Do you want to kill me? Marry me? Or fuck me?”

I tap my chin.

“It’s a toss-up between two of the three options.”

He shakes his head, trying to contain a grin.

“One of those options had better be fuck.”

“Maybe.”

When his eyes bulge, I can’t help but laugh.

“Okay, yes. One is fuck.”

“And the other one?”

“Kill.”

“Of course it is. How about a compromise? Fuck me now, kill me later?”

I stare out into the field. My vision is limited, but it’s dark, wet, and we are completely on our own.

“Now? As in…right now?”

He nods decisively.

“Right now.”

“Here?”

He leans in, his warm breath tickling the side of my neck, igniting a fire that’s been burning inside me for so, so long.

“Here,”

he whispers against the shell of my ear.

“We can’t.”

“Why not?”

“We should get back to the house.”

“It’s too far.”

He’s right, but still…I’ve never had sex in public before. And besides, unless he’s packing supplies, how would we even do it?

“We can’t,” I repeat.

“Why not? There’s no one around for miles. Here, hold this.”

He hands me the picnic basket as he unfurls the blanket wedged under his arm and swings it over our heads, covering us both beneath it. Everything goes even darker.

“I can’t see very well,”

I say, my voice a little shaky.

“Give it a sec. Your eyes will adjust.”

I’m tempted to tell him they won’t, but I keep my mouth shut. He takes the picnic basket from me and tosses it onto the ground. The rain is pouring down, but the blanket covering the upper halves of our bodies is preventing us from getting wetter.

Well, mostly.

“See? It’s working.”

A nervous laugh wheezes out of me.

“This is crazy.”

“It is,”

he agrees, grazing my cheek with the back of his hand.

“Let me blow you, Jackson.”

I pray he can’t see my face right now because I’m pretty sure I look like a dumbfounded owl. I can’t see for shit. We’re out in a field in the middle of nowhere. It’s raining cats and dogs. And Maverick Benson is offering to go down on me.

How is this my life?

“All right, fine. But I’m killing you later.”

“Deal.”

He chuckles, and a few seconds later, I feel his hands tugging on the waistband of my shorts.

“You keep the blanket over our heads, I’ll take care of things down here.”

He presses his palm over my erection through the wet material, and I heave out a breathy groan. Guess my body got on board before I did. “Okay.”

After some wrangling, he manages to yank my cock out of my soaked-through shorts. The inside of his hand is soft and warm. He strokes me a few times and makes an appreciative humming noise.

Or it could be the wind.

It’s starting to blow a gale out there.

I lower my arms, resting the picnic blanket on the top of my head, which lets me hold it up with one hand only. The other finds its way to Maverick’s shoulder.

I can’t see what he’s doing down there, and I really wish I could. I’ve developed an annoying habit of fantasizing about Maverick in various scenarios, including one involving an open field—although the roles were reversed in that one, and I was the one blowing him.

But now that it’s actually happening in real life, I’m forced to use my feeble imagination to picture what’s happening. What is going through his mind right now? Is this the most out-there thing he’s ever done, or is it just me?

I latch onto his shoulder, needing to secure a better grip as sparks of pleasure erupt and make me weak at the knees. He’s not even blowing me yet, but that tongue-flicking thing he’s doing on the underside of my crown is driving me wild.

“You like this?” he asks.

“It’s fine.”

He chuckles. “Fine?”

“If that’s all you can take, don’t feel bad or self-conscious. You get points for trying.”

“I’ll give you points for trying.”

And with that, his hands land firmly on my ass cheeks, and he drives my entire cock into his mouth so fast that if I weren’t holding on to him, I’d fall over.

“Holy fucking shit!”

I cry out.

We’ve gone from a gentle underside tickle to full-on deep-throating in less than three seconds.

My hand slides up the back of his neck, into his damp hair, while he keeps the entire length of my cock lodged in his mouth.

How is he able to breathe?

And then I feel it. Short, sharp puffs of air against my abdomen where my shirt has lifted slightly.

“You know, I’ve been told my dick is a choking hazard.”

A strong gust of air breezes over my skin before he leans back and slides off my dick.

“Now I understand why you never make jokes. I think your sense of humor is likely to do more damage.”

I laugh, and now I really wish I could see more than just a patch of darkness when I glance down.

“That was impressive, Benson.”

“Maverick.”

“Huh?”

“Stop calling me Benson. I don’t like it.”

“Oh…okay.”

I clear my throat.

“I’m sorry…Maverick.”

He produces a low, satisfied hum and wraps his lips around my cock again, slowly taking me all the way to the base, then sliding all the way back to the tip, doing that tongue-flicky thing on the underside of my swollen head, repeating the motion over and over and over again.

I know I didn’t do anything to deserve this, but today is my lucky day.

Closing my eyes, I release a long, contented sigh and surrender to it all. This wild weekend. The rain pouring down on us. The situation at the sanctuary. My eye condition. And most of all…him.

I’m done fighting my feelings for Maverick. And I’m done fighting with him. It’s exhausting, and no matter how hard I try, nothing I’ve done has worked. My feelings for him are stronger than ever.

I know this isn’t going to last. It can’t. I accept that. In a few weeks, maybe a few months tops, I’m going to lose my vision completely. There’s no way I’d expect anyone else to take that on with me. It wouldn’t be fair to him.

But for right now—for this weekend specifically—I’m going to let myself have one last bit of fun.