Jackson plays to her, singing a love song that makes my insides constrict and my stomach turn.
When he’s done, he comes out of the studio, grinning like crazy and grabbing me up in a hug. “That felt so good, baby doll,” he whispers in my ear. “Let’s go home and you can put on one of those see-through teddys I bought you.”
I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing at all and kiss him on the cheek. He sets me down and we say our good-byes to Patrick and Bean.
As soon as we get home, Jackson is all over me, stripping away my clothes and my ability to remember why I’d gotten so upset earlier. He kisses me everywhere, hands following his lips, and I give in to him.
“What about the lingerie?” I whisper, when he’s deep inside of me.
“Next time.” He covers my mouth with his, his fingers lace with mine, his hips drive hard against me, and I’m lost.
***
Over the next couple of weeks, a pattern sets in—one that I’m not sure I like or dislike.
Jackson goes to business meetings, to photo-shoots, interviews, and the studio to record. I go with him everywhere, but the business meetings, even though he swears it would be no problem for me to sit in on them.
Whenever he’s not in one of those, or at the studio, he’s making love to me. In bed, on the floor, the shower… on the kitchen table. I’m helpless to stop him, unable to say no, because I don’t want to stop him or say no. I want to be with him, making love every chance we get.
But I can’t get it out of my head that something special is happening with June Carson. What Jackson has been looking for all this time, he’s found with her. And there’s nothing I can do about it.
Exhaling, I settle against the leather seat in the sound booth of the studio. We’ve been here for a couple of hours and that something-bad-is-about-to-happen feeling won’t leave me alone.
I watch my husband sing to June as he plays his guitar. It’s a song about first loves, old loves, and new ones. She sits beside him on a tall stool, waiting for her turn to croon right back at him.
It seems like every song they perform has to do with love, and with every song they sing, they look more and more like a couple in love.
My heart pinches and I grimace.
Patrick glances back at me, and I quickly paste on a smile. “Usually this kind of stuff takes years.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“Chemistry. It’s off the chart.”
“That’s good.”
“I never did get your name.”
Actually he had, but who am I to argue? “Bliss Morgan.”
“Oh, you’re related to Jackson?”
“I’m his wife.”
Patrick frowns, then Jackson and June’s voices get all tangled up in one another, in a way that makes the hair on my arms stand on end, and he turns his attention back to them.
When they finish, Jackson jumps up, swinging his guitar around and giving June a hug. “Where have you been all my life?”
She hugs him back, and I just sit there, like a bump on a log. “Waiting for my big break.”
“So I’m your big break, huh?” he asks. Is he flirting with her? I can’t tell, and I certainly can’t ask. “Ready to go again?”
She raises a shoulder, casting him a sexy smile. “I can go as long as you can.”
I swallow. There’s no doubt in my mind that she’s flirting with him. Unable to take anymore, I stand. “I’m… I need to go outside.”
Bean and Patrick don’t say a word. They’re too caught up with in the chemistry of the other couple.
When I slip out the booth and head down the hall, no one stops me, and an hour later, when I’m home, pacing the floor, no one calls me.
Not even Jackson.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Jackson
I fall against the couch, sweating my ass off. June falls down right beside me, just as sweaty and breathless.
“God, that was good.” I take a drink of water and then screw the cap back on. “Hell, the past couple of weeks have been amazing.”
“Yeah they have.” She takes a sip from her own bottle. “Hey, you should come out with me tonight. We’re playing at The Blue Fire Lounge. It’s not honky tonky though, more like rock.”
Affronted, I grunt. “Do I look like I play honky tonk?”
Her blue eyes rake me up and down. “Never know.”
The intensity of her gaze makes me uncomfortable, so I scoot down a little. If I had a cushion, I’d probably wedge it between us. Then I give myself a mental shake. How old am I—thirteen? I can sit with an attractive woman, with the name of my muse, one that makes me play better than ever before, and not act like an asshole, like I’d been with Bliss.