บททั้งหมดของ Falling For My Hockey Stepbrother : บทที่ 51 - บทที่ 60

JACKSON“Jackson? Are you awake?”My arms tightened around her. “I am, sweetheart. Something on your mind?”She shifted away from my arms, and there was an insecure, foolish part of me that wanted to drag her back to me. A foolish part of me that doesn't want to be removed from her.“Yes,” she answered softly, sitting up, and I could see the worry etched on her face even in the darkness. I sat up too, the blanket slipping and pooling around my waist. I searched for her hand in the darkness and interlocked our fingers when I found it, because I wanted to touch her at all times, to feel her warmth so my brain could calm and know this was happening and not just my creative imagination at work.“I’m all ears, my love.” She said nothing for a while, and just stared at our joined hands. When she finally spoke, her voice was thick, low. “It’s about this. Us.”My heart slammed against its cage, all manner of thoughts flying through my head, the next worse than the last. What if she wanted

We walked for a while, still hand in hand, my copy of our photo already resting at the back of my phone case, and almost unconsciously, I found my thumb stroking it, and I could almost feel the warmth of it traveling up my arm. We got to a really tall building—a tower maybe—and climbed all the way to the top. By the time we got to the very top, I was panting, sweat dripping down my chin, and Jackson didn't even break a sweat.“We’re here,” he said softly as he wiped my face with a face towel, and just that small gesture, something so little he barely even knows the weight of what he has done, and I have the urge to cry. He has been doing that a lot since we started our travels: those little acts of care; buying food because he knows I wouldn't have eaten anything; pillows arranged the way he has seen me do it; heavy bags taken from my hands.Just those sweet gestures that to him probably weren't a big deal, but to me, they meant the world. For as long as I can remember, all I had w

In Jackson’s hands was a small painting. It was painted on thick paper, making it look like a photograph. He held it up by the top and bottom so I could see it clearly. And I did. I saw it so clearly that my throat closed up, my eyes stung, and without being told, I knew what it was and who it was about.“Well?” Jackson pressed when I just kept staring at it with my lips parted. “Say something before you make a man throw up from nerves.”I looked up at his tight expression and back to the painting, and slowly, so slowly you would think I was disarming a bomb, I reached for the painting. I took it from him with shaking hands. “It’s me,” I whispered, my voice too choked up. “It’s me, Jackson.”“Yes, darling,” he said softly. “It is you.”In the painting, I was wearing a light blue dress, slit at the thigh, my hair pinned up instead of braided. It was nighttime, a venue behind me, trees around me, and even through the painting, you could see my frown. I knew immediately that this was

SIRIIt was just one country between him and England, and I could see that weight in his shoulders growing. I could see the circles around his eyes changing to purple, and he spoke less and less. And I felt fucking useless. Useless because I didn't know what to do for him. I knew words wouldn't help, so I didn't bother. And I felt like the worst person to exist on this fucking planet. He would have done something for me. If I were the one with this weight on my chest, Jackson would have found a way to take it off, but I had… nothing.And that only added to the voices that say I don't deserve him. That he was a better person than I’ll ever be, and all I was doing was hurting him and giving him fucking excuses. “I know,” I whispered to those stupid voices as I stared at myself in the mirror, my reflection looking… wrong. My eyes looked too dark, my eyebrows pulled into a tight frown. My lips were pressed into a tight line, and I looked so much like… like my father. I barely saw him

“You’re so sensitive tonight," I whispered as I sucked her nipple into my mouth, my eyes fixed on hers. “Even more so than usual.”She moaned loudly when I held her nipple between my teeth and pulled softly. Her hands flew into my hair, digging into my scalp as she pushed my head deeper into her chest, a habit I've come to love and always look forward to. A habit that screamed that she needed more without having to use words. I was learning the language of her lewd body. The words that don't need a voice. The gestures that say things she would never voice out. I was learning the language her eyes spoke, and so far, what I've learned has thrilled and scared me. So far, what I've learned has only made me want to know more. And at a time like this, when she was drunk on pleasure, her eyes spoke more. And I listened. So I didn't dare look away as I kept pleasuring my lover, drawing those beautiful sounds from her. She pushed my head harder, demanding for more, and I grinned as I release