Jessie’s Girl Read online

  JESSIE’S GIRL

  NAIMA SIMONE

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  About Naima Simone

  Also by Naima Simone

  PROLOGUE

  Asa

  “You knew.”

  I stare at the woman standing on my front porch. It’s almost midnight, and though it’s the last week of October and the air carries a bite with razor-sharp teeth, she’s clothed in nothing but a thin, long-sleeved T-shirt and skinny jeans ripped at the thigh and knees. She’s shown up unannounced on my doorstep in the middle of the night, looking as if she just threw on clothes, ran out of the house, and jumped in the car.

  Yet, I don’t ask India Roberts what she’s doing here or what she wants.

  And I don’t ask her what she means by her cryptic “you knew.”

  Because she’s right. I know.

  One look into those wide but shattered penny-brown eyes, and I know.

  Instead of answering, I step back and hold the door open wider, silently inviting her to come in. She doesn’t release me from her gaze as she steps into my house, and part of me wishes she would. For my sake. Because she’s ripping me to bloody, jagged shreds with those eyes. Eyes that should only shine with delight, laughter, and love, but are now so dark with pain it’s like looking into an abyss.

  I close the door behind her, and she slowly turns around to face me. And that’s how we stand in the small foyer—my arms down at my sides and hers crossed over her chest. Friends turned adversaries, hovering on either side of an imaginary line drawn in the proverbial sand.

  Me, the betrayer. Her, the betrayed.

  At least in her eyes.

  “You knew,” she accuses again, in that hoarse voice that sounds as if a carpenter took several feet of sandpaper to it.

  “It wasn’t mine to tell.” My voice, even and deep, doesn’t reveal how there’s an angry, wounded animal howling inside me. It’s demanding I go to her, wrap myself around her like a living blanket to soak up the hurt, that agony that damn near vibrates in her husky tone.

  “Wasn’t yours to tell?” she repeats. A harsh, hollow bark of laughter follows as she tips her head back and stares at the ceiling for a brief moment. When she looks at me again, anger flickers, mingling bright and hot with the pain. “You were supposed to be my friend.”

  “I am, India.” The fingers of my right hand curl into a fist. One I wish I could plow into the nearest wall. Or my best friend Jessie’s face. “I am your friend. Never doubt that.”

  “Yeah,” she scoffs, her full mouth with its plump bottom lip twisting into a bitter caricature of a smile. “That’s why you let me walk around with my head up my ass for how long? You let me live a lie. You let me be a fool.” She shakes her head so hard, her dark brown, tight curls brush her cheekbones. “And for the life of me, I can’t figure out which one is worse. Finding out the man I loved—the life I lived with him—was a figment of my dumb ass Pollyanna imagination. Or that I was a willfully blind idiot, and everyone I trusted was in on the joke. The joke being me.”

  “Baby girl,” I murmur, risking her wrath, her disgust, and stepping across that line in the sand to stand in front of her. To… touch her.

  I’ve been very careful about touching this woman. Brief hugs. Deliberate but friendly distance. Even a fucking pat on the head. But now, with her hurt beating off of her in red-tinged waves, I can’t not put my hands on her. Even if it’s just her slim shoulders. But it might as well be on those just-less-than-a-handful and utterly perfect breasts. Or those feminine, rounded hips. Or that ripe peach of an ass.

  It doesn’t matter where my palms skate or where my fingertips press into her gleaming chestnut skin. It’s all sexual. It’s all dirty.

  Because it’s all her.

  For me, it’s always been her.

  My fantasy. My sin.

  My joy. My regret.

  My best friend’s woman.

  Jessie’s girl.

  She bats my hands away from her, whirling around to pace to the other side of my small foyer. Which takes about four steps before she’s headed back my way. Her arms cradle her chest as if they’re the only things holding her together. If she uncrossed them, she might splinter into pieces all over my dark hardwood floor.

  “Jessie told you tonight?” I ask, studying her, wanting to stop her frenetic motion, but I’ve risked putting my hands on her once. No way in hell am I chancing it again. Besides, the way she jerked out of my hold, she would probably claw and scratch my fucking eyes out if I tried to touch her again.

  She shakes her head, another of those horrible, empty chuckles escaping her. “No, he didn’t tell me. His side-chick DM’d me. She decided it was high time I found out about her existence. For my own good, you see. She thought it only right that I knew what my long-time boyfriend was up to when he wasn’t with me. And just in case I didn’t believe her, she provided pictures.”

  What a thoughtful bitch.

  She stutters to a stop, rocking slightly on the balls of her feet. “Oh God. I’ll never be able to… to…” Her harsh gasps shred the air, her chest rising and falling with each ragged inhale. She rubs her fists against her eyes, for a moment appearing like a young girl instead of a twenty-four-year-old woman. “I’ll never be able to scrub those images from my head. How could he…”

  She doesn’t finish, but she doesn’t need to.

  I’ve asked myself the same question thousands of times since Jessie confessed to me a couple of weeks ago about his drunken one-night stand with a football groupie. He’d been broken—the closest I’d ever seen my best friend come to crying. And he’d been terrified about India finding out. Terrified he’d lose her. I felt for him—I did. Given my own history of growing up with a gambler father who saw women as poker chips to be won, cashed in, then doled out to his bitch-ass buddies, cheating was a deal breaker for me. No excuses.

  But Jessie’s transgression seemed even more of a betrayal.

  Because it was India. He had this woman’s loyalty. Her body. Her heart. And he’d tossed it all aside to get his dick wet in some random’s pussy.

  Yes, I loved him, and I promised not to tell India so he could do it first. But a part of me… a part of me hated the man I’d been best friends with since Jacob Parsons broke Jessie’s glasses in the fourth grade, and I broke that bully bastard’s front tooth with my fist.

  I resented Jessie for throwing away what I would’ve gift-wrapped and hand-delivered my soul to the devil to have.

  “He loves you, India,” I murmur. Because as his best friend, I have to fight for him… fight for them. And I know it’s the truth. “He fucked up, but he would die for you.”

  “Don’t you dare defend him,” she whispers low and fierce, whipping around to face me. “He would die for me, but he can’t quite manage to keep his dick in his pants and out of other women?” She sliced a hand through the air. “I don’t need that kind of love. Fuck. His. Love.”

  Wasn’t shit I could say to that. I agree with her, and while I might be the worst friend since Brutus, I’m not a hypocrite. I wouldn’t convince her to give him another chance when I would never offer a woman a second opportunity to stab me in the back.

  Watched that shit happen with my parents on repeat like it was goddamn Groundhog’s Day when I was a kid. Had it happen to me when I was foolish enough to trust my heart with someone, only to have them twist and pound it like Play-Doh.

  Maybe that’s w
hy I need India to be with Jessie. As long as she’s his woman, she’s unattainable, untouchable. I can fantasize about her while my dick throbs and jerks in my fist, secretly crave that cocktease of a body, and hunger for the beautiful smile capable of lighting up a city skyline. But I can’t have her because she’s my best friend’s girl. Which means I can’t fall for her.

  In other words, she’s safe.

  Goddammit, I need her to be safe.

  Her sigh ripples in the air. Closing her eyes, she pinches the bridge of her nose. When she lowers her hand and lifts her lashes, her grief, her pain gut punches me. Jesus Christ.

  “India,” I rasp.

  “I’m not naïve,” she says, all the agony in her chocolate eyes thickening her voice. “I know about the lifestyle of athletes. Especially when they’re on the road more than they’re home. And with me teaching, it’s not like I can just drop everything and travel with him. But I got all that. I was prepared for the women throwing themselves at him on social media and even right in front of me. All of it goes with the territory of being a professional football player. But somehow,” her voice cracks and her frame quakes in a full-body tremor, “somehow, I thought we were above that. Stupidly, I thought our biggest hurdle would be keeping our lines of communication open. Not other women. Never other women. Why would he give away what should’ve been just for me? Should’ve been just for us? How could he touch another woman like he touched me? Did it mean so little? Did I mean…”

  She doesn’t finish the sentence. And I don’t know if it’s because she can’t bear to complete the thought… or if it’s my arms crushing her to me. My hands thrusting into her hair, tangling, and pressing her face to my chest.

  My rules of no-contact shatter under the weight of her pain and that sacrilegious trace of insecurity in her voice. There’s no way I can stand there and not hold her. Fuck, I want to absorb her pain into my body, have it mark my skin like tattoos and wear them proudly. More than anything, though, I only want to take that pain away from her.

  As if the press of my body to hers unlocks a rusty gate, her grief erupts in a ragged torrent of sobs. They tear into her petite frame, and the shudders echo through me like the discordant notes of an out-of-tune guitar. Loud. Harsh. Raw. Jesus, how can her bones not snap under the strength of them? How is she still in one piece? Irrational fear stabs me in the chest, and I tighten my arms around her. I curl around her, burying my face in her curls, widening my legs to draw her even closer. I surround her, determined to hold her together. To not let her break.

  I don’t keep track of how long I hold her. Minutes feel like hours, and they both pass like seconds. At some point, we sink to the floor, and I cradle her on my lap. Senseless murmurs spill from my lips. I got you. It’s going to be okay. You’re breaking my heart, baby girl. Senseless because I can’t have her—I can never have her. And I doubt anything will be the same after this, much less okay.

  After a while, her sobs soften, the emotional storm easing. But she doesn’t move away from me, and God help me, I don’t loosen my arms from around her. I’m a greedy bastard, and after depriving myself of this pleasure for so long, I’m clinging to it as long as she allows it. Allows me.

  With every moment that passes, all of my senses kick into a higher mode. As if, until now, I’ve been living in black and white, but the press of her body to mine catapults me into my own Land of Oz, and I’m seeing in brilliant Technicolor for the first time.

  Each small hitch in her breath tugs on my heart. My eyes note the spiked length of her wet lashes and the faint tremble of her mouth. God, I want to sweep my thumb over that pouty, too-damn-sexy-for-my-sanity bottom lip. Test its give and firmness. Then assess it again with my tongue. Her scent, a heady combination of the jasmine oil she’s obsessed with and fresh rain after a spring storm, infiltrates my nose, floods my mouth and I swear, I can taste it. My gut spasms, hungry for that taste.

  She’s the fucking hottest IMAX experience sitting right here on my thighs.

  India tips her head back against my shoulder, and her copper gaze brands me.

  “Thank you,” she whispers, and I almost wince in sympathy at the rawness of her voice.

  “You’re welcome.”

  Without my conscious permission, my fingers find her throat, gently massage the front where her vocal cords run. She swallows and the up-and-down motion bobs against my fingertips. Something so innocuous, so mundane, and yet it strikes a match to the desire-infused fuel in my veins, and I light up like fire set to dry kindle.

  My heart pounds against my sternum like an anvil, ringing in my ears. My thighs tighten under her ass, and my cock. Fuck, my cock is so hard, I ache. With her petite, deliciously thick body perched on my lap, need and pain are so intertwined, separating them would be like trying to shift sand into color groups. Next to impossible.

  How can she not notice? How can she not feel—

  Her eyes widen and a low, almost hushed gasp pierces the air between us. And I have my answer. She does notice. She does feel.

  Goddamn it.

  For three years I’ve kept my dirty, fucked-up lust for her a secret. She’s my best friend’s girl, has only had eyes for him since the moment they met during an event at the elementary school where she taught. I’m a grease monkey with more real life experience than college education. That can’t compare to a professional football player with a fuck ton of zeroes in his bank account. To India, I am and always will be her man’s friend, his brother-by-choice.

  And no matter how many times I’ve imagined her watching me with those eyes full of need and the knowledge that only I can satisfy it… No matter how many times I’ve envisioned her loving me with that body created to be worshipped and corrupted… No matter how many times I’ve dreamed of holding her during the dark hours of night… Yeah, no matter how I’ve betrayed Jessie over and over again in my head, I’ve never given either India or him any clue of how much I crave her. It’s been my only consolation.

  But now I no longer have even that tiny comfort. Or shred of pride.

  Jaw clenched, I drop my hands to her hips, prepared to move her off me.

  “Asa,” she breathes, her gaze searching mine, questioning.

  “You okay now?” Cutting her off, I tighten my grip on her and am already pushing her away from me. And ignoring the inquiry in her eyes. What the hell could I say? Yes, my dick is hard for you while you cry over your boyfriend. And that makes me a piece of shit.

  As far as I’m concerned, it’s understood. No need for it to be spoken aloud.

  “Asa.” Small, delicate hands cup my face, paralyzing me.

  I can’t move, can’t fucking breathe as she shifts, straddles my legs. Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ. What is she doing? Panic batters me, and my breath claws its way up my throat. How can she not see she’s killing me? Torturing me?

  Somehow, I force my arms to move when the rest of me is still trapped in a deep freeze. Mechanically, I replace my hands at her hips and with the strength of a newborn, I try again to shove her away. Off of me. Out of my house.

  Out of my goddamn mind.

  “Asa, look at me.” Not until the moment she issues her softly spoken order and I obey, do I realize I’d closed my eyes. And that I’m shaking beneath her like an addict plummeting down from his first hit.

  I’m a six-foot-three, two-hundred-pound mechanic who can bench press a transmission from a ’69 Chevelle. And here I sit, trembling under a woman damn near half my size. Terrified. Of what she sees. Of what I feel. Of what I’m capable of if she doesn’t get away from me.

  Still not freeing me from her gaze, she smooths her thumbs over my cheekbones. Back and forth. Back and forth. Calming me. Searing me. Then slowly, so damn slowly, she lowers her head. And brushes her mouth over mine.

  Shock, pleasure, and pain jolt me, and my body jerks as if electrocuted. A sound that’s part animal, part human rumbles in my chest, scratches its way up my throat. It’s desperate, agonized, and so, so fucking hungry.
r />   Not heeding that sound as the warning it is, India sweeps her lips over mine again. Firmer this time. The tip of her tongue making an appearance and dipping into the corner of my mouth.

  I snap.

  The audile crack reverberates against my skull, and it’s my control splintering.

  With a growl, I snatch my hands from her waist and plunge them into her tight curls, fisting the dark strands. Her breath catches against my mouth, and that tiny sound, that small puff over my skin, incinerates any remnants of restraint I had left.

  I take her mouth.

  Own it.

  Defile it.

  One thrust of my tongue between her lips, and I’m lost. In her sultry taste. In all that wet warmth. In her. This kiss should be hesitant, uncertain. I may have fantasized about this with my fist choking my cock, but it’s my first time with my mouth against hers. My tongue inside her.

  I devour her like it’s the hundredth time. Like my job, my fucking life’s purpose, is to suck on that lush bottom lip that has tormented me for years. To lick the roof of her mouth before tangling my tongue with hers, coaxing her to play with me even while demanding she let me fuck this gorgeous mouth.

  A harsh, dark sound rises up between us. A groan. A plea. And I’m not sure if it’s from her throat or mine. I don’t give a fuck. Not when her hands are tunneling through my hair, nails scraping my scalp. The same faint pinpricks that tingle over my head travel through my body and dance down my cock.

  She tugs on my hair, and my hips surge in reply. A “yes.” A “give it to me.” A “don’t you fucking stop.”

  The next sound that breaks on the air is definitely hers. It’s a needy whimper. My blood pumps scalding hot through me, and every cell in my body heeds that unspoken request. Gripping her curls tighter, I drag her head to the side and deepen the kiss. Take more. And I buck between her legs, rolling my dick over her denim-covered pussy.