Because I do have it bad for him. I like all these sides of him so much. And most of all, I like how I can be myself with him.

  Nothing about this moment feels like a hookup.

  But I know it has to be.

  Even when we get in bed. Even when he ropes his big arms around me.

  I know it can only be sex, so I don’t understand why I can’t just let that be.

  24

  Jackson

  My boss is a cover hog and a starfish.

  I’ve never known anyone to take up so much of the bed.

  I wake up wedged into a sliver along the edge of the king-size mattress. Stone occupies 89.9 percent of the real estate, sprawled out on his stomach, long legs and muscular arms everywhere.

  My gaze drifts over his body, cataloging the ink on his skin, the toned lines of his back, the shape of his thighs.

  Not a bad sight to wake up to, even in my wafer-thin section of space.

  The light plays on his body, rays of morning sun illuminating his tanned skin. A quick glance at the clock tells me it’s eight thirty on Saturday morning. I never sleep this late, but I went to bed past two. Terrence is probably on duty now, and that means I’ll need to let him know what’s going on. But knowing the guy, I doubt he’ll be surprised, or bothered.

  Stone has a busy day today—press appearances and a lunch meeting with his label, since the producers are in town. I’ll wake him up in an hour to make sure he doesn’t miss anything.

  I glance at my sleepover companion again. He’s already tangled in a new position. He’s on his back now, his hands parked behind his head, a grin on his face, his lips fluttering softly.

  He smiles when he sleeps.

  My stomach kind of . . . flips.

  I close my eyes, letting the moment take over me fully. Spending the night with another person. Waking up next to another person.

  But it’s not just being with another person. It’s being with . . . him.

  With this man who fought for me last night.

  Who said, for all intents and purposes, Make a choice. Be in this. Choose me.

  That’s not easy to do. That’s not easy to say. Sure, on the one hand, it’s simple for Stone because he has freedoms I’ll never know. Freedoms born from money, fame, talent, and privilege.

  But money can’t shield you from emotions. Money can’t protect you from hurt. And he laid himself on the line for me. Told me what he wanted—me.

  What the hell?

  It’s just a week. Just a deal. Don’t get ahead of yourself.

  A part of me wants to, so I decide to get some space.

  I quietly swing my legs over the mattress and pad around the foot of the bed, but when my eyes catch sight of him twisted on his side now, one leg practically perpendicular, I can’t resist. I bend down, run my fingers over his hair, and press a kiss to the soft strands. As I close my eyes, a brand-new warmth flows through me from kissing him in the morning, in the bright light of day.

  My chest glows with possibility.

  With images of daylight and good times.

  Of him and me, wherever we go.

  Of us together in public.

  Not a ship.

  Something more than a hashtag.

  I open my eyes and shake my head because that is some next-level crazy talk.

  No way is that in the cards. This tryst isn’t for daytime or for the public. It’s nighttime and secrets, and I’d do well to remember that. Always.

  I head to the bathroom, take a piss, wash my hands, and brush my teeth, then grab my boxer-briefs. I tug them on and head to the living room, snag my phone, and click on my Spanish app.

  Best to laser in on anything but him.

  I do just that as I work through some phrases.

  But thirty minutes later, a sexy-as-sin man appears in the living room doorway, clad in lounge pants, dragging a hand through his messy morning hair.

  And all my energy returns to Stone.

  He’s a good sight first thing in the a.m.

  He sweeps a hand across the air. “News flash. Jackson Pearce wakes up first. Shocking secrets of my night with the bodyguard babe I’ve been wanting to bang.”

  I take the ball, run with it. “The story that can now be told—the celebrity who doesn’t get his lazy ass out of bed till noon.”

  Affronted, he stares at a watch he doesn’t wear. “Au contraire. It’s nine fifteen. Also, what the hell kind of sleepover buddy are you? The bed was empty when I woke up. I was so sad,” he says, frowning. He crosses the living room carpet, flings himself on the couch, and drops his head in my lap. Stretching out, he sets his feet on the arm of the couch.

  I ruffle his hair. “Someone is a bed hog.”

  “Aww, not enough room for you to spread out?”

  “Not enough room at all. You take up the whole mattress, man.”

  “I had to escape from you.”

  “Escape from me?”

  “You were all wrapped around me.”

  “I was not,” I deny.

  He pokes my side. “You’re such a cuddler. Does anyone know that you’re the ultimate snuggle puss? You get all close to me, and you sigh contentedly in your sleep when you’ve got me in your arms.”

  My cheeks heat again. “Dude, why are you mocking me for cuddling you in the middle of the night?”

  Stone grins evilly. So damn evilly. “Because you tickled me.”

  “And this is payback? Telling me you were trying to escape from me?”

  A frown creases his forehead. “Hmm. I didn’t think this through.”

  “Yeah, I’d say insulting my desire to cuddle with you in the middle of the night is not conducive to—”

  He launches himself at me, grabbing my arms, pinning them down, and climbing on top of me.

  “What the—?”

  He nuzzles against me, burying his face in my neck, then whispering a confession. “I would never escape your cuddling.”

  “Good,” I say, and I stretch my neck, giving him room to sweep those hungry lips across my skin.

  He answers me without words, giving me kisses that make me shiver.

  His grip on my wrists eases up, so I slide my hands down his body, wrapping my fingers around his waist as he works his way across my throat, to my Adam’s apple, to my jaw.

  “Mmmm. You feel good in the morning,” I say breathlessly.

  “You too.” His voice is husky as he wraps his hands around my head.

  “So good,” I murmur, dragging his mouth back down to mine so I can kiss him again, slow and soft and endless, and he kisses me back with that same gentle passion.

  His kisses undo me.

  He kisses me like I’m the best thing his lips have ever touched.

  This morning kiss is different than our nighttime kisses. Different than our hallway kiss.

  Than our limo kiss.

  This is a lingering, slow slide into each other.

  My mind goes hazy with longing—so much longing as our lips explore each other, like this terrain is all new, all wonderful.

  And it is.

  Getting to know his mouth, his taste, his need is a perfect adventure.

  My whole body tingles, even my toes.

  At some point, we break the kiss, both breathing hard.

  “You can kiss,” I say, kind of amazed. But I’m not amazed that Stone can kiss. It’s more like I’m amazed that I get to experience this kind of make-out session.

  “Or maybe I just really like kissing you, J.”

  My skin sizzles. “Same here.”

  I shift him around so we’re side by side on the couch. Slinging one leg over his hip, I haul him closer, and our lips are magnets, seeking their opposite.

  I can’t stop kissing him, and soon my hands are in his hair. My thumb slides over his stubbled jaw, then roams down to his chest, and I don’t want to stop.

  I don’t want anything to stop.

  I want to drown in his kisses.

  In the way he makes my heart beat faster.

  My skin heats up. My pulse surges.

  His kisses bring me back to a place I haven’t visited in a long time. A place I miss terribly. Maybe a place I want to be again with someone.

  With this guy.

  His kisses remind me of all the good things in the world. But those are things I can’t possibly have with him.

  With my boss.

  In this moment, though, I can have him.

  We can have each other.

  And so, we do. My hand travels into his pants, and I push them down then reach for the lube on the table and pour some in my palm. I stroke his hard-on as I nip and bite and kiss his lips, until he’s coming in my hand and sighing in my mouth.

  Shuddering against me.

  He gives me the same treatment, kissing me with a morning-after abandon, stroking me with a hungry need, and sending me over the edge with his hand and his lips and this closeness.

  It’s the best part of the morning.

  When we’re done and we’ve cleaned up, and I almost feel like Jackson the bodyguard again, a knock at the door jars me.

  Is it Terrence?

  But the answer is no. A woman calls out, “Room service.”

  I jerk my gaze to Stone, surprised.

  He beams. “I ordered for you. Have breakfast with me.”

  I say yes, because this is the true best part of the morning—that it’s not ending.

  25

  Jackson

  I only have eyes for eggs, potatoes, salsa, and coffee.

  But the efficient woman who delivers them is empirically attractive. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. A pretty smile.

  She gestures to the room service tray. “There you go, Stone. Everything you ordered, including the quinoa and papaya. Chai and coffee too.”

  “Thank you so much, Becca. As always, you are a goddess of all things good in the morning.”

  With a professional smile, she says, “My pleasure. Always happy to do it.”

  She spins on her heel, gives me a wave, and then leaves the room.

  My stomach rumbles as I stare hungrily at the spread. “How did you know”—I point to the food—“that these are all my favorites?”

  He holds his arms out wide. “Do you not get it? I pay attention to you.”

  That thing my stomach did earlier? Pretty sure it’s a backflip this time. “I’m just not used to it.” But that’s not what you say when someone orders you your favorite breakfast. I meet his gaze and speak from the heart. “Thank you. This is great, and I needed it, and I appreciate it.”

  “I had a feeling I’d be working you out in the morning.” Stone gestures to the table, and we sit. He takes a long pull of his tea, then sighs happily. “Also, you don’t have to worry about Becca seeing you in the room and gabbing. I know her. She’s my reg. She works directly for Sage and is all about discretion.”

  I tap my temple. “I read the reports. I know the agenda. I know that Sage assigns her top VIP concierges to handle you.”

  He leans across the table, grabs my cheeks, and smushes them. “Nothing gets past you.”

  “True, but thank you for the reassurance,” I say when he lets go. “I appreciate that too.”

  We dig into our food, and I take a drink of my coffee but keep thinking of Becca. Might as well broach the topic. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Hit me up.”

  I tip my head to the door. “Were you attracted to her? She’s a good-looking woman.”

  Stone gives a light shrug, like it’s no big deal. “She’s pretty.”

  “But were you attracted to her?”

  “No. I’m not attracted to everyone.”

  “I get that. But I’m trying to get a sense if she’s your type when it comes to women. I’m curious if you have a type for women, and for men.”

  “Does it bother you? That I’m bi?”

  I snort-laugh. “No. Why would it?”

  “Some women don’t like it because they think it means I’m not that into women. Some guys don’t like it because they think I’m not committed to being gay. And some guys get jealous. You know, because they don’t have pussies.”

  I blink. “Wow. No. None of those are an issue, especially the first, for obvious reasons. And the second is not a thing, because I don’t need a commitment to being gay. That’s not the commitment that matters to me. And I am definitely not jealous whatsoever about not having a vagina. I’m pretty happy with the equipment God gave me and what I can do with it,” I say, and Stone mouths, Me too. “But to answer your question, if I had an issue with your orientation, I wouldn’t have done anything with you in the first place.”

  His brow creases. “You weren’t asking because you’re jealous I might be attracted to a woman? Like Becca?”

  “No. I’m not jealous over women versus men. I’m jealous by nature. The gender doesn’t factor into it.”

  His lips curve into a naughty grin. “You’re possessive.”

  “Yes,” I say, completely serious.

  “Do you feel possessive of me?”

  I set my fork down, giving him a stare. “Is that a real question?”

  “Yes.”

  “Isn’t it obvious?”

  “Is it?” There’s a thoroughly Stone-esque delight in his voice. This guy loves compliments, but he deserves them too.

  “Yes. I feel possessive of you. Yes, I feel jealous when I think you might be attracted to someone else. But whether the attraction is for a man or woman doesn’t matter. Is that clear?”

  “Crystal.” Stone slices the papaya and pops it into his mouth, grinning.

  I take another bite of eggs, savoring the taste. “So, type. Got one?”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t have a type when it comes to men. Or women. I’m attracted to different people. Black, white, Asian, Latino or Latina. Sometimes I like curves on a woman, sometimes toned arms. Sometimes long legs. On a guy, sometimes I like them bigger than me, sometimes leaner.” He draws a deep breath, studying my face with a newfound intensity. “But I suppose if I have a thing, it’s for eyes.”

  “You’re attracted to eyes?”

  “Yeah. Eyes just do me in,” he says, his tone swoony. “That’s my thing. Great eyes. Soulful eyes. Eyes you want to get to know. Eyes that have seen things. Eyes that know things.” His hook into mine, and my stupid heart pounds so loud I bet he can hear it. “Like yours.”

  Backflips, cartwheels, triple jumps—you name it. It’s happening inside me.

  Settle down, heart. Settle the hell down.

  Stone picks up his cup and takes a swallow of tea. “What about you? Got a type?”

  “Definitely,” I admit, grateful to return to the broader topic.

  He wiggles his fingers. “Give me the deets.”

  I make a circling gesture with my finger, pointing at him. “Men who look . . . manly.”

  “You don’t like feminine men?”

  “I don’t. I like the masculine form. Strong legs, muscles, some chest hair and roughness and . . .” I sigh contentedly because this next one is my Achilles’ heel. “Stubble.” I hum low in my throat, getting lost in my happy place. “Love stubble. That is my favorite thing. I love what you have going on here,” I say, gesturing to his jaw, stretching my hand across the table to stroke his face.

  He murmurs as I touch him. “I like that too. But I also find women beautiful. Just intrinsically. The female form.” He arches a questioning brow as I let go of him. “You really don’t care? You sure?”

  “Others have cared? That’s why you’re asking?”

  “Yes. Others have.” His eyes are etched with vulnerability, with a worry that his orientation could be an issue for me.

  I take another bite of my food, then set the fork down. I level with him. “I like you just the way you are, Stone,” I say, and the man’s grin lights up the city.

  It could power the entire Strip.

  Maybe the whole damn state.

  “You do?”

  “I do.” I mean it, and I want him to know how deeply. I don’t want to change him. The man is who he is. “If we were a thing, I wouldn’t have an issue with your identity. What difference does it make if you’re gay and only attracted to men? What difference does it make if you’re bi and attracted to men and women? There’s zero difference. I’m not going to be more jealous because you might be attracted to one hundred percent of people versus fifty percent of people. It’s my job to satisfy you in and out of the bedroom, and it’s your job to be faithful.”

  He sits up straight. “I would. That’s not an issue.”

  I reach for his hand, reassuring him. “I know. I wasn’t saying it is. I’m simply saying that’s all that matters. I wouldn’t worry about the fact that part of your identity is being attracted to women as well as men. That doesn’t bother me. I mean, I’m not into women. I’m not going to have a threesome with you. I’m not going to share you with anyone—man or woman. But that’s me. That’s how I’m wired. I don’t share. But, if you were mine, I’d damn well make it my job and my pleasure to make sure you were happy with me and me alone.”

  I swallow a little roughly, wondering why I just put that out there like that. But it’s hypothetical. Totally hypothetical.

  Stone sets down his fork, his gaze meeting mine, a sharp breath slipping from his lips. “If we were a thing, I wouldn’t want you to worry about me straying or wanting anyone else. That’s why I asked if it bothered you. I like to look, but I’d never touch. Ever. When I’m with you, J, I’m more than satisfied,” he says, squeezing my hand, his eyes locking with mine and shimmering with something besides desire.

  Something deeper.

  Something more powerful.

  Something that feels like all I could need.

  That’s the scary thing. So much of what he’s giving me feels like all I need.

  I’ve got to zero in on the moment. The food. That’s it. I point at the plate. “Let’s eat before it gets cold. You’ve got a packed day.”

  He wiggles his brow. “And a packed night?”

  “Maybe. If you play your cards right.”

  “I always play them right. And then tomorrow you’re going to the game with me?”