Burn for You (Slow Burn, #1)

by J.T. Geissinger

I always thought love was a pair of shackles, but I was wrong. Love was the opened door of a cage.

I cupped her jaw in my hand. “No. It’s like someone just told me I won the lottery.” “Do billionaires play the lottery?” “They would if they knew you were the prize.”

I stroked her face, dazzled by all the little dancing hearts in my eyes.

And I’d gone and fallen in love with her. What a fool. “Right,” I said, shuttering my eyes. She examined my expression for a moment. “What’s that face you’re making? I don’t recognize that face.” This is what heartbreak looks like. “Nothing,” I said flatly. “I’m fine.”

But I was madly in love with her, so I had to tell her the truth. “I told you once wouldn’t be enough,” I said gruffly. It sounded like an accusation. “So? And?” It was a challenge, which pissed me off. “So,” I snapped, “you fucking seduced me!” Her eyes flared in outrage, but I was only getting started. “And now you’re telling me this weekend is all I’m getting! And I already told you I didn’t want to fuck this up! So now it’s too late because it is fucked up because I won’t be able to have you just once and I’m going to go fucking insane trying to keep my hands off you now, because to you this was only sex but to me it was a lot more, and you told me I was beautiful!”

I was singing loudly and badly in the shower when the glass door opened and Jackson stepped in. “Don’t stop,” he said, amused. “I still have ten percent of my hearing left.” He was naked, calm, acting like we showered together every day of the week. He stepped in front of me, blocking the spray, and took the bar of soap from my limp hands as I ogled him. Jackson naked was one thing. Jackson naked and wet was something else altogether. Water worshipped his muscles, making all those gorgeous, golden bulges gleam and sparkle like he’d been photoshopped by a mad, horny housewife. He tipped his head back to wet his hair, and it was in Technicolor slo-mo, a sexy soundtrack playing in the background. I watched with my mouth hanging open as he slowly began to soap his chest. Even Trace hadn’t reached this level of physical perfection. I was showering with a Greek god. With art.

I cackled in delight out loud at her being dumbfounded hahaha hehehe

It wouldn’t do to get ahead of myself and start attaching deeper meaning to things on account of hot shower sex. Hot, emotional, vulnerable, soul-searing, life-changing shower sex. “Uh-oh,” said Jackson. “I smell smoke. You’re thinking again.”

Only this time the hysteria wouldn’t be replaced with sweet relief when I was found. I’d remain lost forever, alone in a sea of unfamiliar faces, crying out her name.

It wasn’t until I whispered, “Tell Daddy I miss him,” that I sensed a change in the atmosphere. Something shimmered briefly. The air gained a palpable spark. Maybe it was my imagination, but I’d swear on the Bible I felt a gentle touch on my head.

Listening to a man cry is one of the most terrible things in the world. Their tears seem so much more devastating than female tears. Maybe because they so infrequently shed them.

“Then get your ass in gear and get up!” She gave the sofa a frustrated little kick, jostling me. “I’m in mourning. You shouldn’t curse at people in mourning.” She snorted and crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re in danger of gettin’ on my bad side, boo.” She didn’t have to say more than that. The last person who got on her bad side ended up with four slashed tires on his car, a headless rooster on his doorstep, and a strange, persistent rash. “I’m up,” I grumbled, rousing. “Terrorist.”

“You’re the terrorist, child. Have you looked in a mirror lately? You’re so frightenin’ I’d hire you to haunt a house! You’re so scary lookin’ you’d make a freight train take a dirt road! You look so bad—” “I get it, I get it,” I said, stumbling to my feet. “I look like crap.”

Trace flipped his lid. He roared, “You’re fucking stupid!” I hooted, positively giddy. “And you’re proof!”

My throat raw with emotion, I said, “I thought love was supposed to be weak knees and butterflies in your stomach and a terrible longing that could never be quenched.” Eeny shook her head, chuckled, came over and embraced me. “No, child,” she said gently, patting my back. “That’s romance. Romance is built on doubt. Love is solid. Constant. If you’re not careful, you might mistake it for bein’ boring because it’s so reliable. Love is warm and deep and comfortable, just right, so you float in it peacefully without ever being scalded or frozen, like a perfect, relaxing bubble bath.

“But it’s also fierce and strong and demands all the best parts of you, the parts that are giving and honest and true. Love makes you a better person. It makes you want to be a better person. You know it’s love when you feel comfortable just as you are, when you feel seen and understood, when you know you could tell all your darkest truths and they’d be accepted without judgement.”

“Love isn’t butterflies, boo. It isn’t weak knees. It’s a pride of lions. It’s a pack of wolves. It’s ‘I’ve got your back even if it costs me my own life,’ because unlike romance that fizzles at the first sign of trouble, love will fight to the death. When it’s love, you’ll go to war to avenge even the slightest offense. And you’ll be justified. “Because of all the marvelous ...

“Oh God,” I blurted, my eyes going wide. “I love him, Eeny! I love Jackson Boudreaux!” Eeny sighed deeply, tilted back her head, and beseeched the ceiling. “Honestly, Jesus, how can you burden me with such stupidity?”

She looked like an escapee from an insane asylum, and also the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. “And another thing!” she shouted at Taylor. “You really shouldn’t wear brown lipstick!”

From the sofa, Rayford cackled and clapped his hands. Bianca whirled around and glared at him. “Rayford! You did that on purpose!” He shrugged. “Sometimes you gotta give the blind a helping hand.”