Jackson

I didn't recognize his car pulling up, because he had replaced the Volkswagon with a new white Mercedes sedan. He parked just past me in the "pickups only" lane, and stood up outside of his car door to wave me over.

I had changed in the airport washroom while I waited for him to arrive. My jeans remained, but I changed my underwear and replaced my casual purple tank with a navy colored silk blend camisole. I had applied a small amount of cherry colored lip gloss, and released my messy chocolate brown curls from the low ponytail I had been sporting on my flight. I looked okay, considering how long I'd been traveling. At any rate, I had a nearly perfect complexion, and wide brown eyes that were captivating without much enhancement. I knew that Jax would like what he saw when he pulled up. After years in a foreign country, he had a serious fixation with American girls in jeans.

The very last thing I put on before leaving the bathroom was the blue and gold silk scarf Jackson had gifted me when I visited him here the week before Christmas last year. I had called ahead that time, because of the season. He told me he was glad that I had, because the advance notice rendered him able to purchase a gift for me that once. As I adjusted the scarf, I tried to remember how many times we had seen each other during my time as an Air Marshall. I guessed about forty two. Every time was distinct, and I bet myself that if I sat and thought it over, I could remember details from every encounter.

It had all begun quite simply, on my sixth trip to Belgium. That evening, I had arrived around dinnertime, and was planning to stay at the 33rd Avenue Hotel, as always. When the hotel car pulled up to the front, I could see that the lobby was awash with activity. The bellhop explained that the hotel was hosting a pastry tasting that evening; that chefs from twelve of the city's most popular dining establishments were offering up their favorite selections to guests and to the public. Champagne and dessert would be complimentary for guests of the hotel.

Eager to keep me busy through the lengthy registration process, the bellhop and the desk clerk agreed that I should indulge myself before checking in. They mentioned that the tall man at table four was American, and suggested that I start there.

Faced with minibar snacks or classic room service options, I decided to wander around until I found something appealing. I found a lemon crème cake with cream cheese icing and toasted coconut. I found chocolate mousse. I found their creator, Jackson Damien at table four; a stunning America-born pastry chef who had been trained in Paris.

I didn't plan to introduce myself, preferring instead to savor the sugar and alcohol combination I had always loved so well at a small table away from the crowd. I assume Jackson noticed me initially because of my attire. Rather than being dressed well as so many of the Belgian women at the tasting were, I was wearing appallingly short khaki cargo shorts and a cream colored hooded cardigan layered over a chocolate brown camisole that matched my mass of curls. He approached me, and asked me if I was from the states. He seemed legitimately homesick, and gleefully anxious to share a drink with another American as the event wound down.

The conversation initially revolved around desserts; my favorite dipped cannoli from Modern Pastry in the North End of Boston, his favorite chocolate cake from some out-of-the-way bakery in upstate New York. He was undeniably handsome, with short, spiky blonde hair and hazel eyes. I had always viewed men who cooked as girlish, but Jackson was a tall and well toned man. He may not have been bulky, but he looked massive next to the shorter, slimmer European men at the Hotel.

As the hour grew later, we began to talk about our work histories; where we were from in the States. I lied out of necessity, telling my companion that I was a stewardess. Jackson told me about his first, short marriage to a beautiful but insane Parisian woman who he had left France to get away from. We laughed together as he recounted her antics, speaking her parts in a humorous French accent that was far from authentic. The laughter and the alcohol were intoxicating. Slightly tipsy, and incredibly attracted to my tall American friend, I allowed Jackson and our second bottle of Malbec up to my room. Our first night together could not have been more perfect.

Now, as I approached him and his white sedan, I took all of him in for maybe the forty third time. He was still insanely good looking to me, though anyone could have agreed with my simple assessment.

Today, he was wearing a light blue button-up with the sleeves rolled up casually to a place just under his elbows. The way the sleeves were cuffed revealed his muscular forearms, which were a subtle reminder of the thin but muscular frame his loose-fitting shirt hid. His legs were sheathed in loose, boot cut khaki pants that reminded me of the ones he had worn the second time we'd been together. He looked so fresh and wide awake, which was a miracle given the hour. It was now nearly midnight, local time.

I knew that part of the attraction was my particular knowledge of his body. I had been over it enough times to know it and love it well; the chemistry and intermittent absence made our encounters perpetually amazing.

He smiled at me warmly as I approached the waiting car, and then ducked into the driver's side of the sedan. I stood outside the car door for a few moments, considering what the next several hours would bring. I literally had to catch my breath before I could open the passenger door. Acting normal was going to be a priority here, and one not easily kept. Looking at Jax made me want to crawl out of my skin, but in a good way. I fluttered my eyes and drew another sharp, deep breath before reaching out for the handle.

I slid into the Mercedes as quickly and smoothly as I could, stuffing my carry-on underneath my legs. When I was done fumbling with the bag, I looked ahead. The vehicle was now in motion, so I focused on the road. I was keenly aware of his eyes on me, but I couldn't yet bring myself to look Jackson in the face. A part of me had always been just a little shy, plus I was fighting serious jitters.

"Miss me darling?" It was more of a statement than a question. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that he was still smiling.

I turned my face toward him reluctantly, keeping my eyes down.

"Maybe," I half-whispered.

He let out a quiet chuckle, and scanned my neck and chest. Reaching over, he twisted a dark brown curl, and then let his fingers travel down my neck to the patterned scarf I wore. "You still wear my gifts, hon."

I looked up at him. His hazel eyes were mischievous; taunting. I couldn't help but smile, and this seemed to please him quite a bit.

"I just like it. It matches a few of my favorite tops" I lied.

Honestly, I had never liked wearing things around my neck, and I had purchased this top deliberately to coordinate with the navy blue that dominated the pattern in the gleaming silk scarf. I didn't really know why if the fabrication was called for, but it seemed like the right thing to do. I wanted Jax to feel that a part of him remained with me while I was away; I would make him happy in any way I could. He was beyond sweet.

I watched out the window as the car turned off of the highway and into the maze of narrower city streets that would eventually lead us to his apartment. The streetlights seemed brighter, more welcoming to me here than they did at home. Perhaps it was my mood, my elation, but the lights were more like the ones on a Christmas tree; like candles on a cake rather than perfunctory street lamps. After a few minutes of comfortable silence, Jackson set his right hand gently on my upper thigh.

I must have made some unconscious movement, because he let out another quiet chuckle. I looked at him again, and his eyes had become very intense. I stared into the hazel for a moment. Right now his eyes were more green than golden, and they were burning right through me. Gorgeous. The exchange changed my mood instantly; my nervous excitement giving way to outright desire.

"Whatcha' thinkin'?" I asked him the question with an air of innocence, but smiled at him wickedly. Sort of juvenile, but I couldn't help it. I thought I knew what was behind the glint in those pretty eyes, but I wanted to hear him say it. He set his lips in a hard line, declining to respond to my incredibly vague question. We continued to drive over cobblestone streets in the dim light of eclectic signage. I stared at him menacingly now, but if he noticed, he said nothing.

Cleary, more provocation was needed. After a moment's musing, I decided to slide my hand down his muscular inner thigh in retribution. I thought I felt a tiny quiver, but I acted as if it were all unnoticed; as if I hadn't felt his involuntary reaction to my nearness. The silence continued; and as we flew by shops, bars and parking lots, I decided I'd ask him the same stupid question again.

"Jax, Whatcha Thinkin?" This time, he turned to face me, taking his eyes off the road for just a split second. I flashed him a restrained smile this time, and used my free hand to adjust the strap of my camisole, which had been slowly creeping down my bare shoulder. I don't know what I expected him to do or say in response to my teasing, but what I didn't expect was for my companion to pull over to the side of the road in a maneuver so quick and aggressive that I momentarily felt the onset of real panic.

"Jesus Christ, Jax. This isn't Boston," I panted.

When I regained my composure, I turned toward him expecting an explanation, but he only stared. First, he turned his eyes toward my hand, which was still positioned on the inside of his leg. Then he took in the navy strap that was once again falling off my pale left shoulder, exposing a little more skin than would otherwise have been visible. He looked at me with an expression that could have been anger, but was more likely intense desire.

Seconds later, the full weight of the top half of his body was crushing my chest, his hands grasping frantically for my face and hair.

With a frenzied swiftness, Jax pushed his mouth urgently against the corner of my lips. He kept his soft mouth on mine for a moment, before pulling away to brush a section of my renegade curls out of his way.

"Baby, I missed you," he whispered.

He tangled his fingers into my chocolate tresses in an effort to keep my hair out of the way of our lips, then leaned back into me and kissed me straight on. I felt his tongue graze my lower lip, and it was a gentle sensation that contrasted with strong lock he had on my head. I parted my lips slightly, letting him push into my mouth. He slid his tongue in and out rhythmically, mimicking more intimate acts. It felt sensational. I groaned into his mouth, more than willing to play his game.

We fought for dominance as we kissed, licking and sometimes biting each other's lips with gentle and not-so-gentle nips. I had locked my arms around his waist after he had initially grabbed me, but had begun moving my hand back slowly toward his thigh. I wanted to feel his hard-on, even though I already knew how I'd find him. Suddenly, a strong hand moved off of my face and cuffed my wrist.

"We have to get home."

"Uuugh. No."

I must have looked dejected, because he leaned in to place another, softer kiss on my nose.

"I'm sorry I started this here. I meant to wait," he paused. "I missed you, baby. I'm dying to get you home."

The words lit me up. Knowing that Jackson really hurt with desire for my body made me high, and as this gorgeous man pulled away from the curb, I was flush with excitement again, dying to hear him say everything that was running through his mind as he drove.

I knew Jax was a pretty sensitive guy. It was part of what made him such a fantastic lover. He needed to hear that I cared for him; that I thought of him when I was away from him, as he thought of me. Just as I needed to feel desired, he had to be cared for. Jax had made it known the second or third time we hooked up that he had developed some type of emotional attachment with every woman he'd ever slept with. It was completely adorable then and now.

He didn't think we were a couple, or expect a commitment; it was clearly something I couldn't give him. What he needed was an equally emotional lover, and he was so amazing, that I decided to give him what he needed that way. I gave him emotional every time we made love, staring into his eyes and whispering his name, even though it wasn't really me. I thought of it as role playing, and after a time, I had come to find it reasonably enjoyable. It wasn't hard to have fun with Jax.

But my American in Brussels needed to feel a connection outside of the bedroom too, and it was harder for me to feign that connection with him. It required intense concentration, something I lost rapidly when I was tired or distracted.

"I thought about you a lot since last time," he said to me, letting his gentle gaze drift in my direction.

"You too." It wasn't an outright lie, I did like the guy, and I cared whether or not he was happy. Still, my words were deliberate; a calculated effort to make him feel the way he needed to feel.

"You should call me sometime," he admonished, a slightly sour tone in his voice, "sometime when you aren't already here, I mean."

"Why?"

He met me with longing eyes, and I immediately regretted the question.

"I mean, I wouldn't want to bother you," I recovered, "I'm surprised that you aren't dating again as it is."

He looked at me with a perplexed expression, so I continued to try and talk my way out of the foolish, hurtful why.

"I mean, it's bad enough that I call while I'm here. What if I called you while you were out with someone?"

"I very rarely am." He was being completely honest.

"But you could be. You should be, really. You need someone. Someone who's always here. I mean, you could get married again… wouldn't you like that?"

"I guess I hadn't really given it a lot of thought."

I sighed disapprovingly. "You should. I mean, I'd like to see you happy. I'd miss you, but I'd be happy if I knew we couldn't do this anymore because you were spending time with someone…. good for you."

"You'd be happy?" The tone was even, but disbelieving.

This wasn't going well at all.

"Maybe not happy; but I'd feel okay about it" I said, correcting my last remark.

I glanced at him conspicuously for a half second, and he smiled weakly.

"Um, Thanks, I guess…for wanting that…something good for me."

"Sure," I sighed.

This was not remotely where I had wanted the conversation to go. I just wanted him to think I cared about him, for his own sake. He was so goddamned gentle, he deserved that much. I turned away from his side of the car and gazed out the window at nothing in particular. Sometimes, I wished men were as uncomplicated as society made them out to be.

I thought I recognized the next road we turned onto as his, and I was grateful for timing because I didn't think I could muster the energy to talk my way out of another stupid comment tonight. Truthfully, I was also concerned that the turn the conversation had taken would kill the superior mood that had preceded it. Earlier, Jax had clearly been anxious to get me into his bed, and I could remember vividly how good he was the last time we had spent the night together. As I shuffled out of the car and up the two flights of metal stairs that led to his door, I replayed our most recent kiss over and over in my mind. My body was exhausted, but my mind was full of him.

I wanted him now, dessert later.

"Bells…" I must have looked vacant. Jackson stood to the side of me, gesturing toward the now open door to his apartment.

"I'm sorry, I just spaced out."

He laughed good-naturedly. Being with him was easy, with the exception of the lovey-dovey crap. That I could have done without.

Dropping my bag next to the door, I walked toward what must have been a new couch, and In an instant, he was behind me with his arms around me. Brushing my hair to one side of my neck, he pressed his lips to my ear, my neck. I moaned lightly at the sensation, and he reacted immediately. Now, I could feel him hard against my back, and I was completely turned on.

"Let me make love to you, baby," he whispered into my ear. I turned to face him, and he kissed me deeply.

He never had to say it. There was nothing I wanted more in that moment. Pulling away from his kiss, I leaned into his chest, placing my cheek lightly against the blue cotton that covered him. I reached a hand up to grab the back of his head, and threading my fingers through his disheveled sandy blonde hair, I pulled his face down near my own.

In an unstable voice no louder than a whisper, I called out his name.

"Jackson."