Crashed Out Page 3

  Something about the way she said it made Sarge question her truthfulness. Which made no damn sense, since he knew Jasmine’s voice was incredible. If he closed his eyes and thought back to hazy Hook summers spent at the community pool or drinking Coke in his backyard, he could hear her voice, husky and confident, floating in a jumble with the humidity.

  They pulled up in front of Jasmine’s building, the cab’s brakes protesting as it slowed to a stop along the curb. Sarge paid with a twenty before Jasmine could extricate her purse, earning him a narrow-eyed frown. “Sarge—”

  “What?” His tone was teasing. “How else am I going to repay you for this forced hospitality?”

  Jasmine didn’t answer as they climbed out of opposite ends of the cab, meeting at the glass-door entrance of her apartment building after Sarge retrieved his gear from the trunk. “I did you a favor. The closest motel rents by the hour.”

  “I’ve been in worse,” he murmured, following her into the building. “How long have you been living here?”

  She went to punch the elevator call button, but slumped when she saw the out of service sign taped over the sliding metal doors. Indicating the stairwell with a nod, she headed in that direction and Sarge followed, not managing to keep his gaze from gliding up her calves, the backs of her smooth thighs. “My second year at the factory…when it became obvious I would be here for a while.”

  Sarge allowed her to ascend a few stairs before climbing after her. “You don’t like the factory?”

  Her laugh punctuated the air. “No one likes the factory except the suited boys upstairs. If you’d left poor Carmine alone a few minutes longer, you would have heard all about it.”

  “I’m good with my decision,” he responded too quickly. Just hearing her say the asshole’s name made him grind his teeth. He still couldn’t believe she’d been struggling in a bar full of men and no one had come to her aid. To be fair, each and every patron had been intoxicated, and Jasmine had been in an alcove where he might have missed her, had the voice from his dreams not reached out and slugged him the second he walked into the Third Shift.

  Sarge wasn’t sure his reaction would have differed if Jasmine had been into the kiss with Carmine. He’d just wanted the guy off her. Period.

  Sarge glanced up in time to see Jasmine watching him over her shoulder, tugging down her skirt as she bypassed the second-floor entrance and headed for the third. Did she sense his inability to avert his gaze when her hips were swaying like a checkered flag at the beginning of a race? That red hem couldn’t be deterred on its mission to slip higher and higher, where it teased the underside of her ass. The fog of jealousy that had descended at the mention of her date’s name was being burned away by an increasing weight between his legs. So much sharper than usual because the source of his hottest fantasies was leading him to her apartment. The place she slept, showered, touched herself.

  Ah, Jesus. Don’t think about that.

  “So…” Jasmine slipped her fingers beneath the dress’s hem once again, holding it in place at a modest level. “How long are you in town?”

  Sarge followed her through the beige metal door onto the building’s third level, watching as she searched for her keys in the clutch purse. “Long enough to forget why we were starting to annoy each other, I’m guessing.” When she laughed over her shoulder, eyes sparkling, he had to take a second to regroup. “Our drummer, Lita, was getting into too much trouble on the road, so our manager put her in a time-out. And I’ve waited long enough to meet Marcy. Christmas seemed like the best time.”

  A weight pressed down on his shoulders. “We’re also on the fence about signing with a new label. It would mean more studio time, a quick turnaround on another tour…”

  “That’s incredible,” Jasmine breathed, pausing midstep. “Why would you ever turn something like that down?”

  It doesn’t matter how far I travel, my head is always here. “No reason. We’ll probably sign.” Sarge threaded his fingers through his hair. “So what’s my niece like?”

  “Ohh. You’re going to love her. She’s a miniature River.” Jasmine pushed into the apartment and flipped on a lamp with a pink shade, casting the living room in a rosy glow. “So. Lita, huh?” She turned with crossed arms, waggling her eyebrows at him. “Is she your girlfriend?”

  Sarge tried to contain his horror and couldn’t. “She’s like my kid sister.” He set his bag down and circled the apartment, trying not to be obvious about inhaling the sight of everything she touched on a daily basis. “A kid sister who can drink me under the table. And then bury me under her rap sheet.”

  He couldn’t see Jasmine’s reaction because she turned and disappeared into the kitchen. For a full ten count, Sarge could only watch the doorway, his old self warning him that being in tight spaces with Jasmine was a bad idea. But he wasn’t the old Sarge anymore. This trip could be his only opportunity to kick this infatuation. Don’t waste it.

  Sarge followed Jasmine, coming to an abrupt stop on the threshold when he saw Jasmine heating up a pan. And removing the fixings to make a grilled cheese.

  Something unruly danced inside his rib cage, begging to get out and run free. He couldn’t even appreciate the truly gorgeous fucking image of Jasmine at the stove, her waist flaring into hips in need of gripping, her long black hair falling in waves down her back. All he could process was irritation. It might have been unintentional, but with one gesture, she’d sent him back to the misery of his teen years. Being babied by a woman who inspired sweaty, wicked images at inopportune moments of his day. Sending him to the school bathroom to work out the ever-present lust wrought by his older infatuation. It had never gone away, no matter how many times he’d tried to appease himself. Every day had left him feeling raw and exposed—kind of like he felt right now.

  He refused to sink any deeper.

  He advanced into the kitchen and scooped the cheese singles off the counter, intending to put them back in the fridge. “No need to go to the trouble, Jas. I’m not hungry.”

  “Ah, come on.” She peeked up at him from beneath thick eyelashes, a sly smile decorating her lips. The easy comfort she projected was completely at odds with the precise bread-buttering taking place in her hands. Was she nervous around him? The possibility sank like an anchor in his stomach, but he wasn’t given the chance to fix it, because it happened. “You’re always hungry,” she said quietly, before setting down the bread knife, turning to face him…and ruffling his hair.

  Sarge’s mind attempted to overrule his body, which swelled to life like the tide during a full moon. What he wanted to do painted itself in vivid detail behind his eyes. Snatch a hand out to circle her wrist and pin it against the small of her back. To overwhelm her. To chastise her for trying to knock his vital years of experience from their perch. He wanted to watch Jasmine’s back arch out of necessity, tilt her tits up, mashing those pointed peaks against his chest, and fuck…that’s when he would start praying that her answering sob of surprise would shake free those mounds from her dress.

  He didn’t act on any of that, however, because she’d already been held against her will tonight, and he would dive headfirst into an early grave before he fell into the date from hell’s category. Inaction wasn’t a possibility, though, either. Fuck no. Whether or not he’d anticipated it upon returning to Hook, tonight had been a long time coming, and he wouldn’t let the chance go to waste. With a quick dip forward, Sarge scooped up Jasmine and deposited her on the kitchen counter, adjacent to the stove, coming up between her splayed thighs. When her ass landed on the beige Formica, her red lips parted on a startled gasp, tits bouncing with the impact, right beneath his mouth. Christ.

  With a steel will, Sarge reined in the moan of a man finally granted conjugal visits after a decade in prison. It was right there, imprisoned in his throat, all thanks to having Jasmine so close. Feeling her body heat. Listening to her inhale.

  “What are you— W-what was that?”

  He pressed his knuckled fists into th
e counter on either side of her hips and leaned in, close enough to see her irises dilate. “I’m making you the grilled cheese this time around. How’s about that?”

  An adorable wrinkle formed between her brows. “I already ate.”

  “I’m aware.” Dragging himself away was a feat, but the image of her on a date with Carmine induced enough annoyance to make it possible. He could feel her attention following him closely as he picked up where she’d left off with the grilled cheese, slipping two slices of cheddar between the white bread and dropping it onto the well-heated pan. The two minutes it took to cook the sandwich simmered with tension, amplified by their lack of conversation. Not to mention, Jasmine’s drawing attention to her toned thighs by tugging on the hem of her dress, writhing that delicious ass on the counter to keep it pulled down. They met eyes as she performed the sexy maneuver, and he swore her breath hitched, but couldn’t be sure, thanks to the sizzle of the pan.

  “I’m really not hungry,” she muttered as he flopped the grilled cheese onto a plate and cut it in half.

  Sarge lifted one half to his mouth and blew on the edge, all the while easing back toward her at the counter. When he was inches away, her knees shot back together, but he let his lower abdomen rest against them anyway, wanting—needing—to see how she would react. But she stayed still, a wealth of caution radiating from her tense form. Those deep brown eyes seemed to liquefy as she focused in on his mouth…and that was all she wrote. His hard-on grew more prominent in his jeans, contouring to the curve of his fly. Again, that desperate moan climbed in his throat, the one that would give him away as a man obsessed, but he staved it off. The need to jerk himself off had been this intense only one other time in his life, and it had involved Jasmine in a glittery gold bikini, oiling herself up on a towel in his backyard. He’d been seventeen—Jasmine, twenty-four—and after five minutes of watching the torture from his bedroom window, he’d laid face down in his bed and come, groaning into his pillow, after two frantic pumps.

  Now, Sarge lifted the sandwich to her mouth, letting the crust brush against the seam of her plump lips. “Eat it for me.” Of its own accord, his left hand dropped to her ankle, teasing the inside with back and forth brushes of his thumb. “I don’t want your last meal tonight to be one that guy paid for. Not while I’m in town.”

  Brown eyes clashed with blue. “I don’t think…eating this particular meal is a very good idea.”

  His thumb dipped into her shoe, sliding along the arch of her foot. “It’s just a sandwich, Jas. Humor me?”

  The more pressure he applied to the sensitive section of her foot, the more her eyelids fluttered, but after a moment of the treatment, she shook her head and sat up straighter. “No, it’s not just a sandwich. It’s you forcing me to admit I made a bad decision in terms of who I date.” She pushed away the grilled cheese. “I’m fine admitting that to myself, but not someone else. You’re judging.”

  She tried to slide off the counter, but on impulse, Sarge stepped between her legs at the last minute, forcing her to slide down his lap to the floor. It was a big fucking mistake, even though the answering bliss in his groin as her pussy slid over the bulge behind his zipper felt nothing like one. Still, it ripped the Band-Aid off the moan he’d managed to cage since entering her apartment. It released against the top of her head like feedback from a hot microphone. He could practically feel the facade he’d been attempting tumble to the floor in a heap…but that wasn’t all he felt. Jasmine’s petite curves shivered against him, almost violently, a call his body answered by pressing her back against the counter, his fists lifting to bash against the overhead cabinets.

  He heard her gulp, followed by wavering but determined words. “Whatever this is, it’s not happening. I won’t let it.” She shifted against him, her shuddering exhale fanning his collarbone when he only pressed closer to keep her from rubbing against his cock, which would cause all hell to break loose in his jeans. “Sarge. W-what is this? You’re my…best friend’s kid brother.”

  Finally, he found the power to speak around the arousal clawing along his spine. His mouth was a centimeter from hers now, but he had no memory of when he’d moved. Both sets of their lips were parted, hot, hurried breaths clashing between them. “I haven’t been a kid for a damn long while, Jasmine. You want to feel it again and make sure?”

  Her lips parted in shock, pink appearing on her cheeks. “Sarge.”

  He recognized that tone as her stern, no-nonsense, I’ll-tell-your-parents-about-this-behavior tone, and it propelled him to take his warning a little further, even though something told him she was working hard to pull off her disapproving attitude. “No more fixing me sandwiches. No more ruffling my goddamn hair.” He reached down and grasped her hand, bringing it to the back of his head, moving it in a messy circle. “If I ever feel your fingers in my hair again, they’d better be pulling my face closer to whatever I’m licking.”

  The sound that tumbled from her lips was part sob, part hiccup, hands scrabbling against his shoulders to push him away. He let her go, because she needed to know he would always stop when she indicated he should. Always. No matter how much it ached to stop touching her.

  The hand Jasmine shoved through her dark hair shook, but her voice was steel. “You can’t just talk to me like that.”

  Honestly, he wanted to laugh up at the cracked ceiling. She obviously hadn’t been paying close attention to his song lyrics. “Look, I say what I’m thinking now. Keeping it to myself never did me much good.”

  “Oh yeah?” She kicked off her high heels in the direction of the tiny dining alcove, near the kitchen’s entrance. “Well, it’ll do me some good.”

  Sarge crossed his arms, smiling inwardly as an idea presented itself. “Fine. You’ll get no more gutter mouth from me as long as I’m in town.”

  Her chin lifted, but she was suspicious. “Thanks…”

  “But you have to take a bite of this sandwich.” He felt the amusement slip from his expression, but couldn’t stop it from going. Yeah, it was important to him that her last meal not be from some unworthy son of a bitch. But there was a darker part of him that wanted to fall asleep knowing he’d put something he’d made in her stomach. Ah, come on, who was he kidding? He wouldn’t sleep a damn second tonight. It would take him an hour to figure out how to wring his cock out without her hearing across the hall. And if the past were any indication, once wouldn’t be enough where Jasmine was concerned. “What’s it going to be?” he asked, his voice having dropped around fifty octaves.

  “Oh for the love of…” Jasmine stomped across the kitchen barefoot, obviously uncaring that her tits were bouncing like sweet little temptations as she went. Sarge stepped closer as she took the bite, swallowing a growl when her teeth sank into the bread and she chewed, swallowing a few seconds later. “Happy?”

  God, he wanted to smear the lipstick painting her mouth. Over to her chin, across her cheek, down her belly. “You have no idea.”

  She held up a single finger. “That sounded like gutter mouth in disguise.”

  “You know me so well.”

  Jasmine paused at the kitchen’s threshold, one hand lingering on the frame as she perused him over her shoulder. “I thought I did.”

  Chapter Four

  Jasmine never had trouble sleeping. Since childhood, she’d had the ability to black out as soon as her head hit the pillow. Couch armrests, car doors, and folded arms were all fair game. At the factory, she was famous for catnaps in the break room while vending machines vended and employees chattered. So there was just no excuse for being wide-awake with three glasses of wine in her system. Dreamland should have been an easy destination, reached in mere seconds, but no. No, she had a too-young man with an ambitious mouth right across the dark, narrow hallway.

  There wasn’t a chance—negative chances, in fact—that Sarge could back up the talk with the walk. She’d dated plenty of men who spoke a big game and failed to handle business in downtown Ladyville.

  Oh, but
he’d been so convincing. So specific. There had been knowledge in those baby blues she didn’t recall from before. Honestly, she didn’t recall that kind of try-me-you’ll-love-me attitude from anyone she’d spent time with. Coupled with that moan? That moan that made her body feel like an object to be lusted after? In the mirror across the room, she could see herself in her white nightshirt, and the image sent a flush climbing her neck. Nipples distended against the cotton material, lips parted as she struggled to regain composure. So very non-Jasmine.

  Coño. Knock it off. It was River’s brother she was thinking about. She’d attended his middle and high school graduations when she was already in her twenties. This little bud of attraction—and it was little…teeny tiny, minuscule, a speck, really—she’d felt between her thighs when the silk of her underwear had slipped down his rigid fly, it had to have been a fluke. An unwelcome one.

  Jasmine went on occasional dates, enjoyed male companionship, and afterward, she slept the sleep of angels. No second-guessing her actions or wondering what would happen when the sun came up. No replaying interactions or trying to recapture the feel of a man’s body with a now-scandalized pillow. God, if anyone in Hook knew she was lusting after a man seven years her junior—a famous musician nonetheless—she would never live it down. Everyone in this town had a long memory, and they remembered just-watch-me-blow-this-town-and-your-mind Jasmine. What’s more, they remembered her failure to succeed almost as well as she did. They would view her taking up with Sarge as an attempt to recapture her youth—the future she’d never lived up to—and she wouldn’t be able to stand the sympathy that would garner.

  Especially if it turned out they were right. Less than a week until her thirtieth birthday, she could be having a one-third-of-life crisis. There was simply no other way to explain why she felt like she might suffocate if a certain honor-defending, potty-mouthed musician didn’t follow through on his threats.