My face flushes crimson, and I duck into Jax’s shoulder to try to hide my embarrassment at my selfishness and immaturity. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper into his shirt. “You didn’t deserve what I said today.”
Before he can respond, a sense of desperation rushes through me—a need to show him my apology. I step away from his embrace and turn to gesture toward the oven. “I thought I’d make you dinner to apologize. The casserole is almost done, and I just need to finish the salad while we wait for it, but I can always make you something else if you’re not in the mood for what I made—”
“Hailey,” Jax says, trying to interrupt me.
I don’t even hear him, I just continue babbling. “Or, um, if you’re sore I can give you a massage while we wait. It’s whatever you want, really. You tell me.”
“Hailey,” he says, stronger this time.
“Or if you’d rather I just leave, I can do that too. I probably shouldn’t have showed up and inserted myself into your night anyway, so I’ll just leave as soon as the food is—”
“Hailey.” He stops my word vomit with a tone that brokers no argument, at the same time that he grabs my arms and turns me to face him. “Please, just… shut up for a second, would you?”
I swallow thickly and force myself to look up at him. He doesn’t look angry, just slightly frustrated.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he starts. “We’re going to eat and then you’re going to stay in my bed tonight if that’s whatyouwant, because that’s where I want you. And not because you did something that you need to apologize for, but because that’s where you belong. I love that you showed up to make me dinner, but you didn’t need to do that just because things got a little heated today. When that happens we just talk through it, deal with it, and move on. None of this is necessary. Got it?”
I’m not entirely sure I got it, but I nod anyway. I want to be what he says but I still feel this intense, inherent need to make up for the way I acted.
He studies my expression, looking skeptical that I believe him, but he doesn’t say anything else. He just pulls me into a hug.
“You’re a queen, remember?” he murmurs into my hair. “I never want to see you beg or plead.” A pause. “Unless you’re on your knees for me, of course.”
That finally causes me to relax. I bury my nose in Jax’s chest and tighten my arms around his waist, unable to hold my smile back. I hear him sigh in relief and hug me closer.
“So what did you say you made for dinner?” he eventually asks, pulling us out of the tense bubble.
Dinner is a fun, easy time. I’ve never hung out with Tristan without Remy, so it takes me a few minutes to get to know him as a person instead of a couple, but by the time Jax is cleaning his plate of the last piece of meat, I’ve become increasingly familiar with Tristan’s dry humor and expressionless gaze.
We even decide to watch some TV together after Jax clears the dishes off the table—without prompting, of course. It actually took me a moment to shake my shocked and unblinking stare from him when he started reaching for the plates.
We’ve barely started the firstCriminal Mindsepisode when Tristan starts yawning and decides to call it a night, leaving Jax and I alone on the couch.
I’m curled up under his arm, sunk deep into my thoughts about everything that’s happened today—about Stacey’s offer, about my conversation with Jax, about how differently themake-upconversation with Jax went.
It’s that last one that keeps me stuck in my thoughts. I don’t want to compare the two men, but Steve is so deep in my brain that it almost feels like he’s the only experience I have. Where Steve would’ve wanted to sweep the fight under the rug and ignore me for two days, Jax wants to get it out in the open. He wants to talk it out. And where Steve would’ve played the passive aggressive, unspoken blame game, Jax honestly doesn’t seem to judge me for my freakout. It’s almost like it never happened.
Yet, I still can’t shake my guilt. If he would just let me make it up to him, I would feel better about myself and could move on.
I peek at him from under lowered lashes. My eyes rake over his languid body, sprawled lazily as he watches TV with a content smile on his face. He changed into joggers and a T-shirt after the gym, and because both are thin enough that they’re plastered to his body in this position, I can see every bump and ridge of his muscles. I drop my gaze to his lap, finding the outline of what I’m looking for.
I only debate my actions for a moment. Then, I’m sliding off the couch and kneeling between Jax’s legs, my hands running up his dense thighs until I’m bracketing his hips.
Steve wasn’t a sex fiend by any means, but he loved making me pay penance by giving him head. It was an easy power play for a few reasons, namely because vanilla blow jobs gave him pleasure but not me, and because it put us in a physical hierarchy of power—he loved looking down when I was on my knees. And then when he was done, the issue would never be apologized for or spoken of again.
And while I know Jax would never do any of that, I’m desperate to right the power dynamic between us in a way that I know and feel comfortable with.
“Hailey,” Jax murmurs, sounding unsure.
I tug on the waistband of his joggers and motion for him to lift his hips. He does, but I can feel him watching me closely. He doesn’t say anything else, he just tenses his muscles when I fist his hardening cock in my hand and begin to stroke.
Barely a few breaths later, Jax is rock-hard in my hand. I waste no time taking him into my mouth and working him over with my tongue and lips.
“Fuck,” he mutters. But he doesn’t touch me or take over the way I thought he would.
I peer up at him through my lashes.
He doesn’t look pained like he usually does when he’s trying not to come; he’s frowning. I close my eyes to avoid his gaze, even as I double down on my efforts to make him feel good.