His brow furrows a bit, and I know that he is worried that the nightmares came for me, prompted by Ethan’s confession. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I say. “No nightmares last night. You vanquished them all,” I say truthfully. What Reed did—what my father did—will always haunt me. And my father’s confession to Ethan about the whole sordid business only adds another layer of shadows to the nightmares I already fight. But Jackson has convinced me that I can fight them.

I lift a shoulder then, the motion minuscule. “It’s just that I woke up without you. I didn’t like it.”

I don’t know what he sees when he looks at my face, but whatever it is, it’s enough. He reaches for my hips, then tugs me to him, then presses his lips to mine. The kiss is soft, yet powerful. Deep, yet tender. I melt against him, all of my fears, my doubts, my angst swept away in a sensual fog, no match for the power that is Jackson.

The kiss is long and lingering, and with each passing second, my passion rises, my senses firing. My breasts rub against him, the sensation sending curls of pleasure swirling through me.

“It’s morning,” he murmurs as he pulls away. “We need to get to the boat and head to the island.”

“Not just yet. Please,” I say, that one word holding all my fears and insecurities. “Please, at least for a little while, just hold me.”

He searches my face, then silently leads me to bed. He strips off his jeans and shirt, then slides under the covers beside me, tucking me in against him so that my ass is snug against his semi-erect cock.

I want more—hell, I need more. I need his touch to soothe and center me. But as far as I know, Jackson has been up all night and I don’t want to demand when he’s tired. More than that, I want to be able to stand on my own, because I’m terribly afraid that there will come a time when Jackson won’t be beside me to battle away my fears.

So I close my eyes, trying to be strong. Trying to simply enjoy the feel of his arms around me.

Jackson, thank god, has other plans.

Lightly, so that I almost do not even recognize the contact, he begins to stroke my thigh, making me squirm.

A thread of sensual heat curls through me, and I shift, parting my legs slightly so that he has better access. As I’d hoped, he takes full advantage, his hand easing down along the juncture of my thigh and torso, then to my pelvis, and then finding the nub of my clit. I gasp, drawing in a stuttering breath as he makes his fingers into a V and slides along my now-slick labia but avoids the touch that I am desperately craving.

“Jackson,” I murmur. My hips are moving in their own rhythm now, trying to direct his hand, his touch. But Jackson foils me, and the release that my now-primed body seeks is just out of reach.

Frustrated, I press my rear back against his cock, then close my eyes in satisfaction at his low, masculine groan of pleasure. Then his mouth brushes my shoulder, and his low, sultry words are sending ripples through me. “I need to fuck you, baby. Like this. Right now.”

“Yes.”

“Touch yourself,” he demands even as he takes my thigh and pushes it forward. Now we are still spooning, but my legs are scissored as his fingers thrust inside me, making me wild with need. And only when I’m so damn wet that I’m sure the sheets must be damp, does he ease his cock into me and fill me with long, slow strokes that make me moan.

Slowly at first, and then harder, so that with each thrust we scoot a bit up the mattress. But I want it harder, deeper, and instead of teasing my clit, I lift my hand over my head and press against the headboard to provide some resistance as he pounds into me, harder and harder, until he finally explodes inside me, and then falls limp against me, his body draped over mine.

I sigh and stretch with pleasure. I’m close, and I know if I touch myself, I will go over, but I do not want that. Not now, when I have the pleasure of being so close that even the touch of the air is a sensual caress. And so when Jackson reaches lazily over me, then starts to ease his fingers down to play with my clit, I close my hand over his and shake my head, just a little.

“I want to stay here,” I say. “I want to stay here on the edge.”

“Why?” he asks.

How can I answer when I don’t really understand myself? All I know is that I want to stay here for a little while, balanced precariously before I fall.

And so I give him the only answer I know. “Because you’re the one who took me there.”

Less than an hour has passed when I slide out of bed and start to get dressed. It feels like an eternity, though. Like I have slept and healed and come out fresh on the other side, renewed and brave.