“Yeah?”
“I said I wanted to take this slow.”
“You did.”
“I meant it. At the time.” His hand found my knee. Warm. Heavy. “But I’ve been replaying it for three days and I’m beginning to think slow is overrated.”
My heart hammered. “What happened to doing this right?”
“Maybe doing this right doesn’t have to mean doing this slow.” His thumb traced a circle on my knee. “Maybe it means being honest about what I want.”
“And what do you want?”
Ellis’ hand tightened on my knee. His jaw worked, fighting through the careful to get to the honest.
“You.” Simple. No hedge. “I want you, Jett.”
I kissed him.
Not careful. Not like Saturday outside Prospect Park, where he’d cupped my neck and pulled me close like he was holding himself in check. This time I kissed him like I’d been starving for it, because I had. Three days of replaying that first kiss until the memory wore thin.
His hands came up to my face, both of them, holding me there. I tasted ginger from the pad thai and the lime seltzer he’d been drinking. His mouth opened under mine, and I leaned into him until his back hit the arm of the couch.
“Sorry.” I pulled back an inch. “Too much?”
“Not enough.” He grabbed the front of my shirt and pulled me back down.
We kissed until my jaw ached and my breathing went ragged. His hands slid from my face to my shoulders to my back, mapping muscle through the cotton of my t-shirt. I shifted until I was over him, one knee between his thighs, my forearms braced on either side of his head. The couch groaned under us.
“We should move.” I kissed his jaw, the stubble rough against my lips. “Before we break my couch.”
Ellis laughed, the sound vibrating against my mouth. “Lead the way.”
I stood and pulled him up with me. He stumbled forward, off-balance, catching himself against my chest. My hands went to his waist. His went to the back of my neck. We stood there in the blue TV glow for a beat, foreheads touching, neither of us moving.
Then I took his hand and led him to the bedroom.
Light from the living room spilled through the doorway in a warm amber wash. Enough to see by. Enough to hide in.
I pulled my shirt over my head and watched Ellis’ eyes travel across my chest, my arms, the tattoo on my ribs he hadn’t seen yet. His gaze lingered there long enough that I touched the ink.
“What does it say?”
“Libre.” I touched the word along my ribs, the letters small and clean. “Free. My mom’s handwriting. She wrote it the night before my twenty-first birthday and watched the artist transfer it onto my skin without flinching once.”
His face changed. He stepped close and pressed his mouth to the tattoo, soft and unhurried, and the intimacy of that cracked me open in a place I didn’t want to admit had a door.
I pulled at his shirt and he let me take it off. Lean muscle underneath, earned, not sculpted.
Then I saw them.
Two small silver barbells, one through each nipple, catching the low light. I didn’t move. Just looked. Took them in.
“Yeah?” His voice was soft. Like he’d clocked me clocking them and was waiting on the verdict.
I lifted my eyes. Held his.
“Yeah.”
