Silent Strings

Chapter 14 (18+)

The elevator ride to Jackson’s penthouse stretched in silence, the air between us charged yet unspoken. He stood beside me, leaning casually against the wall, his hands tucked into his pockets. His tie hung loosely around his neck, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He looked every bit like a man who’d had a long day—and yet he somehow carried exhaustion like it was an accessory.

When the elevator doors opened, I followed him into his space. The room opened up to a breathtaking view of the city, and for a moment, I was drawn to the lights glittering like a sea of stars.

"You keep this place spotless, huh?" I said lightly, running a finger over the edge of the kitchen counter.

Jackson smirked, tossing his keys into a dish by the door. "You sound surprised."

"Well, I’d imagine someone as busy as you wouldn’t have time for housekeeping."

"Are you implying I’m incapable of managing my life?" His voice was teasing, but there was something in his tone that made my stomach flip.

"I didn’t say that," I replied, matching his playful energy as I kicked off my shoes and sank onto the couch.

"Good," he murmured, walking to the kitchen. "I’d hate for you to underestimate me, Ines."

The way he said my name sent a shiver down my spine. He always did that—turned something as mundane as casual conversation into a game I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to lose.

"Red or white?" he called from the kitchen, holding up two bottles of wine.

"Red," I said, trying to sound unaffected.

He poured two glasses and brought them over, sitting beside me on the couch—not too close, but close enough that I could feel the heat of him. His cologne, subtle and clean, filled the space between us.

"To old times?" he asked, raising his glass.

I clinked mine against his, the sound delicate in the quiet of the room. "To old times," I echoed.

For a moment, we sat in comfortable silence, sipping our wine and watching the city lights through the massive windows. But I could feel him watching me—those dark eyes of his lingering on my profile, studying me like he always did.

"How have you been, Ines?" he asked finally, his voice softer now, more genuine.

I hesitated. "Busy. Adjusting. You know how it is."

"Yeah, I do." He tilted his glass, swirling the wine lazily. "Though you seem more exhausted than I remember. You sure everything’s okay?"

I glanced at him, caught off guard by the concern in his eyes. "I could say the same about you. You’ve been running yourself ragged, Jackson. It’s... concerning."

He chuckled softly, a sound that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "That obvious, huh?"

"Yes," I said firmly. "Why are you pushing yourself so hard?"

His smile faded, and he looked down at his glass, turning it in his hands. "I thought it’d help," he said quietly.

"Help with what?"

He exhaled, leaning back against the couch. "With not disturbing you. After that night... I figured you needed space. I didn’t want to be the reason you felt uncomfortable. So, I kept myself busy."

His words hit me like a punch to the gut. "Jackson..."

He turned to me, his expression unreadable. "I’m sorry, Ines. You must’ve felt like I was forcing myself into your life, and I never wanted that."

"No," I said quickly, setting my glass on the coffee table. "It’s not like that."

"Then what is it?" he asked, his voice steady, his eyes searching mine.

I looked down at my hands, fidgeting with the hem of my sleeve. "It’s not you who’s the problem. It’s me. I..." I faltered, the words catching in my throat. "I can’t explain it right now. But it’s not what you think."

I felt his hand cover mine, warm and grounding. When I looked up, his expression had softened, his gaze filled with understanding that only made my chest ache more.

"Take your time," he said, his voice low and soothing. "I’ll wait until you’re ready."

The tenderness in his words was almost too much to bear. He always did this—pushed just enough to make me feel seen, but never too much to make me feel cornered.

He deserved the truth, but I wasn’t ready to give it to him. Not yet.

Because I’m scared, I’m afraid I’ll hurt him. I’m terrified that he’ll hate me.

"You make it sound so easy," I murmured, trying to blink away the sting of tears.

He smiled then, a slow, lopsided smile that made my heart stutter. "It’s not. But for you, it’s worth trying for."

The silence that followed was heavy, charged. I could feel the weight of his hand on mine, the warmth of his presence. And for once, I didn’t pull away.

"Do you want another drink?" he asked suddenly, his voice breaking the tension just enough to let me breathe again.

"Sure," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

As he got up to pour another round, I let myself watch him—his broad shoulders, the way he moved with effortless confidence. The tension between us was undeniable, simmering beneath the surface. And when he came back, handing me my glass with a quiet smile, I knew this night wasn’t over—not by a long shot.

I watched him move with a kind of quiet grace, his shirt untucked, slightly rumpled from hours of work and the weight of the evening pressing on us both. His hair was disheveled, as though he'd run his fingers through it one too many times, and yet he still looked effortlessly composed—like chaos and calmness personified.

There was something about him in this state, a rawness beneath the polished exterior, that made the air between us crackle. Every step, every movement, drew my attention like a moth to a flame.

I tried not to let my gaze linger as he reached for the bottle of wine, his long fingers gripping the neck of it as he tilted it toward my glass. The sound of the liquid pouring was too loud in the silence. My pulse quickened with every deliberate motion, with every second he filled the space around me with his presence.

Oh no. He’s seducing me. And it’s working.

I took a sip, the warmth of the wine spreading through my chest like a slow fire, loosening the tight coil of tension that had wound itself around me for far too long. The room felt warmer—or maybe it was just the way his presence was sinking under my skin, seeping into every thought.

“Jackson.” The whisper escaped me before I could stop it, trembling with a mix of longing and hesitation.

His hand froze mid-motion, the wine bottle hovering above the table. He turned to me, his dark eyes sharp and questioning, yet undeniably soft in the way they found mine. “Yes?”

There it was again—that pull between us. It was almost unbearable, how strongly I could feel it now, this invisible tether drawing us closer. My heart was racing, my thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind, and all I could do was look at him, hoping he’d understand what I couldn’t put into words.

I swallowed hard. “I... I don’t know what I’m doing,” I admitted, my voice a breathy whisper.

His lips curved into a faint, knowing smile, but there was no humor in it. Only something deeper, darker, and infinitely more dangerous. “Just tell me what you want, Ines.”

The way he said my name sent a shiver down my spine, his voice dipping lower like it carried the weight of something he’d been holding back for far too long.

“I—” The words caught in my throat, too heavy to say aloud. But my body betrayed me, leaning forward slightly, my hand trembling as I reached up and brushed his cheek.

The warmth of his skin under my fingertips made my breath hitch. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, and when they reopened, they were darker, hungrier.

“Ines,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “If you keep looking at me like that...”

“Like what?” I challenged my voice softer than I intended.

His gaze dropped to my lips, and I felt the heat rise to my cheeks. “Like you’re daring me to lose control.”

My heart stuttered, a mix of fear and exhilaration roaring through me. “Maybe I am.”

The challenge lingered between us, heavy and unspoken. Slowly, he leaned closer, his hand coming up to rest lightly against my jaw, his thumb brushing along my cheekbone.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he said softly, his breath warm against my lips.

“I think I do.”

The space between us disappeared in an instant. His lips found mine, tentative at first, testing the waters. But the moment they touched, it was like a dam breaking, and all the tension that had simmered between us for years spilled over.

The kiss was soft, then firm, then something else entirely. I felt his hand slide to the back of my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair as he deepened the kiss. My glass slipped from my hand, but I didn’t care. It was just him now—his lips, his hands, his touch.

He pulled me closer, his other hand settling on my waist, and I could feel the heat of him through the fabric of my dress. The world outside dissolved into nothingness. There was only this moment, this kiss, this man who had always been too much for me to handle and yet exactly what I needed.

When we finally broke apart, gasping for air, his forehead rested against mine, his eyes still closed.

“You’re ruining me,” he said hoarsely, his voice heavy with emotion.

I laughed softly, my fingers brushing his jaw. “Am I?”

His eyes opened then, locking onto mine with a fierceness that made my breath hitch. “You drive me crazy, baby.”

And just like that, he kissed me again, deeper, hungrier, as if there was no turning back now.

I didn’t even notice when we’d crossed the threshold of his place. Everything about tonight felt like a dream—a fragile, fleeting

moment I didn’t dare breathe too hard on, lest it shatter.

But now, I was here. In his space. His scent surrounded me—clean, woodsy, and distinctly Jackson.

My back hit the door of his bedroom before I realized we’d even moved. The look in his eyes was something I hadn’t seen before—intense, unwavering, and completely focused on me. It made my knees weak, my thoughts scatter.

“You’re quiet,” he murmured, his voice low, almost reverent. His hand rested against the doorframe, caging me in but never making me feel trapped. “What’s going on in that head of yours, Ines?”

I couldn’t answer. My thoughts were a tangled mess of emotions and fears. I wanted to tell him everything, but the words caught in my throat, too heavy to speak.

Instead, I reached out, my fingers brushing against the front of his shirt, hesitant at first. He caught my hand, pressing it flat against his chest, and I felt the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

“You can tell me anything,” he said, his voice softer now.

“Not tonight,” I whispered. “Please, Jackson. Not tonight.”

His brow furrowed slightly, but then he nodded, his hand tightening around mine. “Okay. But I need you to promise me something.”

“What?”

“That you won’t shut me out again.”

The weight of his words settled over me, and for a moment, I thought I might break under the guilt. But then his other hand cupped my cheek, his thumb brushing against my skin in a way that made my heart ache.

“I won’t,” I said, my voice trembling.

He stared at me for a long moment, like he was searching for any sign of hesitation. Then, as if something inside him snapped, he leaned in, capturing my lips in a kiss that stole my breath.

It wasn’t the first time we’d kissed, but it felt different now—like there was more at stake, like he was pouring everything he felt into that one act.

My hands moved on their own, sliding up to his shoulders, pulling him closer. His body pressed against mine, warm and solid, and I felt like I might melt into him entirely.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured against my lips, his voice rough. “Just tell me if this isn’t what you—”

“Don’t stop,” I interrupted, surprising even myself with how desperate I sounded. “Please, Jackson.”

That was all the permission he needed.

In a blur, he scooped me up, and I instinctively wrapped my arms around his neck, my head resting against his shoulder as he carried me deeper into the room. The door clicked shut behind us, and my heart pounded in anticipation, in fear, in longing.

When he set me down on the bed, he hovered over me, his hands braced on either side of my head as he looked down at me with a mix of hunger and tenderness.

“Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted this?” he asked, his voice raw. “How long I’ve waited for you?”

Tears stung my eyes again, and I turned my head slightly, unable to meet his gaze. “Don’t say that if you don’t mean it.”

His hand gently turned my face back toward him, forcing me to look at him. “Look at me, Ines,” he said firmly. “Do I look like someone who doesn’t mean it?”

I blinked up at him, and all I saw was him—only him. His dark eyes held no lies, no hesitation. Just me.

“Jackson,” I whispered, my voice breaking.

He kissed me again, softer this time, as if he were trying to reassure me, to ground me. His hands moved to my waist, sliding beneath the hem of my blouse, and I felt the heat of his touch against my skin.

I wasn’t thinking anymore. I couldn’t. All I knew was that I wanted him, needed him, in a way I couldn’t explain. And for the first time, I wasn’t afraid of what that meant.