“Just watch,” he instructs, rough and commanding. “Watch me jerk off on you. Like you wanted.”

  A rush of heat licks my body, then the flames roar to the ceiling as Jackson grips his cock harder, his hand shuttling up and down his length.

  “Look at you,” I groan, lifting my hips, desperate for him. His big hand is curled tight around his thick shaft. The head of his cock is slick with his arousal.

  His other hand cups his balls.

  I have a front-row seat to the hottest porn video ever. Only it’s real. It’s happening. It’s playing out in front of me. The man who turns me on more than anyone ever has in the history of my life is turning himself on.

  I’m burning up with desire. “You’re so close,” I murmur.

  His jaw clenches, and his breath comes in stutters as his hand flies. “You ready to get off?” he asks.

  “So fucking ready.”

  “I’m gonna help you out,” he grunts, his hand racing in a blur. “Give you something to jerk with.”

  He pumps his hips into his hand, snapping them so fast, so furiously that I nearly come from the sight of him chasing that high.

  “Here,” he growls, as he jerks himself off.

  On. My. Dick.

  Hot jets of come shoot onto my cock as he unleashes his climax on me, and I am down for this.

  Oh yes, I am motherfucking down for this.

  “Now,” he commands as he’s still panting, still groaning.

  Don’t need to tell me twice.

  I grip my dick, all nice and slick with his hot come, and I stroke myself. Dirty bliss rips through me, torching my veins. “Thanks for the lube,” I say as my hand rockets up and down my shaft, and I’m nearly there myself. I’m nearly at the cliff because it’s so insanely arousing to jack myself off with his release.

  It’s such a turn-on I don’t know how the hell I will keep my hands off this man for the rest of the day.

  I don’t know how I won’t touch him in public. How I won’t kiss him at the game like I want to.

  But I let all the forbidden fade away on an upstroke as pleasure pounds through me, as it roars down my spine, and I come in a blur of heat and lust.

  I’m panting, spent, and so damn blissed out.

  Certain, too, that all this sex will keep my heart safe.

  Trouble is, he bends close to me, kissing me in that tender, gentle way he has, and I’m so far gone already that my heart is climbing out of my chest to throw itself into his arms.

  Even sex tricks aren’t working.

  When he breaks the kiss, he runs his thumb along my jaw. “You were so sexy just now, Stone,” he says, his intense gaze meeting mine.

  “That so?” I can barely get words out with the way he makes me feel as he looks at me.

  “I don’t know what to do with how much you excite me,” he whispers.

  “Keep letting me excite you,” I suggest. I’m helpful like that.

  His lips curve into a soft smile. “Sounds like a plan.”

  And it sounds like we’re talking about sex and not about sex at the same damn time.

  What the hell is this epic shit?

  I leap to my feet. “That was pass interference. That was the worst pass interference!” I shout at the glass window in the private suite, giving hell to the ref on the field.

  “That was beyond PI,” Jackson seconds, pacing too.

  “He missed the offsides call earlier,” my grandma chimes in, shaking her head in disgust.

  I flap my hand at the window. “Are these the worst refs ever?” I hunt for Nadia, spotting her chatting with Eliza by a tray of appetizers. “Nadia, your refs suck.”

  She rolls her eyes. “News flash. We don’t employ the refs. The league does.”

  “Even so, you need to fire them,” Jackson chimes in.

  “Send them back to school,” Grams adds.

  “Ref retraining. That’s what we need.” That comment comes from Zane as he cracks open a can of soda and returns to his seat by the window of the private suite. We’re huddled in the first row, watching the action in the third quarter. A backup bodyguard is stationed by the door, since Jackson is off duty.

  The game play resumes. “Fourteen’s a lot of points to make up,” I huff to Jackson.

  He snorts, casting a derisive glance to the field. “These refs blew a call the other week in the Miami game.”

  My brow knits. “You track the refs?”

  “Gotta know the enemy.”

  “Smart, man. That helps predict how things are going to shake out for your team,” Zane offers, then lifts his Diet Coke in a toast. “Hey, Jackson, maybe you can share your ref intel with Grams. She can use that to make some better fantasy football picks. What do you say, Grams?”

  She peers at Zane over her red glasses. “I’m not kicking your butt enough in our fantasy football league? You’re a glutton for punishment, kid.”

  He rests his head on her shoulder. “I am indeed. But only with you.”

  She pats his dark hair. “You’re my favorite grandson,” she coos.

  I catch Jackson’s eye, stage-whispering over their heads, “She lies. She tells vicious lies. I’m her favorite.”

  Jackson shrugs. “That’s not what the woman says, Stone.”

  Zane wiggles his brows, his eyes flashing with cockiness. “Face it, bro. I’m younger and better looking.”

  My jaw drops. “No way.” I jerk my gaze to Jackson. “Is he better looking? Say he’s not.”

  A laugh seems to burst from my guy’s chest. Then he lifts his hands in surrender. “Not touching that with a fifty-yard pole.”

  Zane swings his eyes to mine, his irises flickering with do tell.

  And . . . I might have dropped an anvil-sized hint that my bodyguard and I are more than coworkers. More than friends.

  That’s no good.

  “Grams, tell me more about how you’re kicking Zane’s butt in fantasy football,” I say, trying to steer the conversation to safer ground—away from this unruly mess of feelings I have for the man here at the game with me.

  I’m saved by another bad call on the field. Grams’s and Zane’s attention diverts to the game, and I slink away to join Nadia by the veggie trays, now that Eliza has taken off.

  I grab a carrot and crunch into it as Nadia shoots me a look that says spill.

  “What?” I act dumb.

  Her eyes slide toward my crew, her voice quiet. “How is your bet with Zane going?”

  “Great. So great,” I say, injecting lots of pep in my voice.

  But that’s weird.

  I’m not peppy. I’m an outgoing guy, but I’m chill, not cheery.

  Nadia knows it too, hissing out, “Liar.”

  I flinch. “What do you mean?”

  She rolls her eyes, tipping her forehead to Jackson. “You two get on great.”

  Is it that obvious?

  Oh, yes, it is, you dipshit.

  I scramble for an excuse. I don’t want to serve up the truth. One, Jackson doesn’t want me to. Second, it’s private. But still, I do kind of wish we could just be here together the way I want to be.

  “We’ve always gotten along,” I say.

  One brow climbs. “Always? You used to give each other a hard time.”

  “We still do.” In many ways.

  She pops a carrot in her mouth, nodding a few times. “Right. Sure.”

  I should leave this alone, but instead I poke the issue. I want to know how obvious my feelings are. “What are you trying to say, Nadia?”

  “I’m saying I think you’re going to lose the bet,” she says pointedly.

  My eyes drift to Jackson. The second I look at him, my chest aches. My skin tingles. And everything feels right. Everything feels good.

  My throat goes dry. My stomach flips.

  I don’t have a clue what to do with this torrent of emotions roiling inside me.

  It’s so much more than sex.

  So much more than contact.

  I turn back to Nadia. I can’t fight it anymore. They’re happening, these emotions, and they’re pulling me under. “Yeah. You’re probably right.”

  She rubs my arm. “It happens to the best of us. Or so I hear.” She sighs sympathetically. “What will you do?”

  I scrub a hand across the back of my neck, sighing. “No idea.” My heart is heavy, and I don’t want it to be, so I change the subject. “Did you and Zane meet yesterday?”

  “We did. I think I might have some opportunities for him.”

  My eyes widen, and a smile tugs at my lips. This is excellent news. “That would be great. I’ll owe you big time.”

  “You’ll owe me nothing. But I do want to be the first to know when it’s official,” she whispers, her gaze drifting to Jackson.

  My shoulders sag.

  Nothing will be official.

  Nothing can happen.

  He’s made that clear.

  I laugh off her comment and return to Zane a few minutes later, glancing around for Jackson and Grams.

  “They went to check out some trophies down the concourse,” Zane explains. “They’ll be back any minute.”

  Good time for me to catch up with my brother away from the hubbub of backstage. I clap him on the knee. “You’re doing great with the show. You feeling better about things?”

  “Definitely,” he says. “Dad called twice, but I ignored his calls.”

  “You’re going to need to talk to him soon. You know that, right?”

  “I do. Just wasn’t ready. I wanted to make sure I was doing a good job for you.”

  “You are. And don’t forget—you were meant to be here. Meant to be creative. This feels right for a reason. It’s who you are.”

  “I think so too. Thanks again for the chance.”

  “Anytime. I’m stoked to see you making the best of it.”

  “And speaking of business,” Zane says, lowering his voice, his eyes sparking with intrigue, “what’s the story with you two?”

  What is it, see-through-me day on the calendar?

  “The story with what?”

  He rolls his eyes. “C’mon. You and Thor.”

  “Thor, like Chris Hemsworth Thor?”

  “That’s what the internet calls your bodyguard. When they’re not calling him WHB.”

  “What does that stand for?”

  “World’s Hottest Bodyguard,” he says with a laugh.

  I laugh lightly too. “Sounds about right. Have you seen too that peeps call us Jackstone when they see pics of us?”

  “I have indeed.”

  “Crazy, huh?” I ask, a grin threatening to take over.

  Zane shakes his head, wagging a finger. “So . . . you broke the deal.”

  “Did not,” I say quickly. “I’m not in love.”

  He leans closer, draping an arm around me. “But you’re falling.”

  My stomach swoops. My stupid lips smile. “Shut up. Just shut up.”

  Zane sinks back into his chair, all satisfied. “I call it like I see it.”

  “I’m not in love,” I whisper.

  He squeezes my shoulder. “By the way, your boyfriend’s back.”

  I whip my gaze so fast to see Jackson stroll back in, and Zane cracks up. “Busted. So busted.”

  I drop my face in my hand and groan.

  He squeezes my shoulder again. “I won’t even collect. I just want you to say I was right.”

  “You’re not right,” I grumble.

  There is no way I can be in love. No way at all.

  When Jackson and Grams rejoin us, I repeat that mantra, even as they talk about the musical Jackson’s sister’s going to be in, even when he shows her pictures of Bethany, even when she asks him all about his family.

  Even when I hang on every word.

  But I’m not in love with him.

  I swear I’m not.

  27

  Jackson

  After the game ends with the Hawks coming back in the fourth quarter, we pile into Stone’s limo and peel away from the stadium. I told the backup bodyguard I’d cover him the rest of the evening, so he’s done for the night. The driver winds through the streets of Las Vegas as the four of us chat, recounting the game-winning touchdown, the energy in the stadium, and the play that the quarterback pulled out of his pocket at the last minute.

  “That’s why football is an awesome game,” I say.

  Stone’s grandma nods sagely. “I couldn’t agree more. But I do like baseball too, so if you ever feel like going to a ball game, you know where to find me,” she says with a wink.

  Zane’s lips round into an O as he nudges her elbow. “Grams, are you trying to take Stone’s bodyguard out on a date?”

  “I like having someone to chat about sports with who knows what he’s talking about,” she says.

  Zane brings a hand to his heart, gasping. “I know sports.”

  “But not like Jackson,” she says, patting his knee sympathetically.

  He mock-pouts as I smile at her. “I will talk sports anytime, Marianne. And I would love to go to a baseball game with you.”

  Stone turns his gaze to the window, but I catch the hint of a smile on his face, almost like he’s trying to hide it.

  We drop them both off, since Zane is going to spend the night at her house. When we get back in the limo, I close the door, and now it’s only us. Stone doesn’t even say a word. He slides closer to me, stretches his hand across the seat, and reaches for mine. As the car pulls away, he threads our fingers together.

  My heart stutters.

  “I want to do this in public,” Stone says, his voice warm, like whiskey.

  “Me too.”

  “So many times, I’ve wanted to take your hand when we’ve been walking around. Put an arm around you.”

  I look at our joined hands, bring them to my lips, and plant a kiss on his knuckles. “I want to do the same. Kiss you on the cheek. Ruffle your hair,” I say, reaching my free hand across to show him what I’d do. “Put a hand on you, but not as your bodyguard.”

  “You’d do all that? In public?” He sounds surprised.

  I laugh. “Out and proud, babe. Out and proud.”

  “Well, I know that now. I just like the idea.”

  “I’d do all that with you. Anywhere, anytime.”

  Stone leans his head back against the leather seat, sounding dreamy. “I’d be amenable.”

  “If you weren’t my boss, I would.” I squeeze his hand harder. Rub my thumb across the top of it. These are his instruments. This is the way he makes music, the way he entertains crowds.

  And right now, after hours, I get to hold these hands and touch this man.

  “I’m not your boss,” Stone says softly, a futile denial.

  I link our fingers more tightly, like I can send a message through touch—and the message is don’t lose sight of the truth. “You are, and you know what I’m saying.”

  With a heavy sigh, he whispers, “I do.”

  “And that’s the trouble, isn’t it?” It’s not the first time I’ve mentioned the problem. The big problem. But it bears repeating. It’s not going to disappear. We can’t sweep it under the rug.

  “Yes, that’s the damn rub.”

  As we pull into the portico of The Extravagant, the car slows, but I don’t let go of his hand. Instead, I inch a little closer and lean into the make-believe. “But if you weren’t, I’d get out of the car, open the door, put my arm around you, and walk into the hotel like that.”

  His green eyes sparkle even in the darkness. “Like Jackstone.”

  I laugh. “You know our ship?”

  He shrugs lightly. “I’m not oblivious to the internet.”

  “I thought I was, but then my sister mentioned it to me,” I say as the limo stops.

  “And what do you think about the fact that we’re shipped?”

  What do I think? I love it. It makes me so damn happy. It feels like all the possibilities we can’t have.

  But I don’t say that to Stone.

  That’s not what we are, though it feels like we’re teetering dangerously close to wrecking our deal—to smashing it, even. Lately, as in during the last twenty-four hours, it seems like he wants more. Like maybe he’s more serious than he’s let on.

  That gives me the courage to say the next thing. To test the waters.

  “I’m more interested in what you think.”

  Stone licks his lips, takes a breath, and flashes me his megawatt smile. But it’s not simply his celebrity smile. It’s the smile that comes from within.

  “I like that the internet likes the idea of us together,” he says, and my chest glows because I’m pretty sure I’m reading him right.

  Reading us right.

  I move to the door, open it, step outside, and look around. Make sure the coast is clear. Then I lean back in, meet his gaze, and answer him, letting him know I feel the same. “The internet isn’t the only one.”

  The next few days pass in a blur of sex and work, work and sex.

  And nights with Stone.

  Nights that hardly feel like they’re part of a deal.

  On Wednesday, as the clock ticks closer to his concert series ending, we head to a local community center at the start of my shift.

  It’s located in an area that was once a hotbed for street gangs. The neighborhood has since been cleaned up, and Stone’s been a regular charitable contributor to the center.

  I head inside with Candi, and I stand by the doorway as the musician settles into a rec room with some teenagers for another visit. He plugs in his electric guitar and shows them a few basic chords. He hands his extra Strat to one of them, and a goofy smile spreads on the teen’s face as he slings the strap over his shoulder then plucks out a chord.

  Stone nods in time to the beat. “Yeah, just move like this,” he says, and shows the kid how to do it.

  With a smile, the kid does his best as Stone taps his fingers. “That’s how we do it. That’s how we make music.”

  They play together as Candi snaps photos on her phone.

  She nudges me, brandishing the screen. “These pictures are gold. You know why?”

  “Because a picture’s worth a thousand words?”

  “No. Because they’re legit. Look at him. This is who he is. It’s just magic.”