“Jax—”
“My turn, Nova.”
He stands up — picks me up like it’s nothing — and lays me back on the couch. Stands over me for a second, looking down. Pulls his shirt over his head. Kicks his jeans off. Bare. Scars at the hip from old gear. The line of him I’ve memorized in photographs from before I ever touched him.
“Off,” he says.
“What?”
“All of it. Off.”
I shimmy out of my leggings. My underwear is still on — soaked through from when I came, sticking to me, and I see him register it the second I hook my thumbs in the waistband.
“Wait.” His voice. “Slow.”
I slow. He watches me pull the wet fabric down my thighs. His jaw works.
“Christ, Nova.”
I drop them on the floor.
I’m naked on my couch in the middle of the day with the Florida light coming through the window and a man who has just had his words destroyed in front of me looking at me like he plans to even the score immediately.
He gets on his knees on the floor. Hands on my thighs. Looks up.
“Hey.”
“Hi.”
“Stay with me.”
My eyes water and I don’t know why. He sees that too. Doesn’t comment on it. Just keeps his hands on my thighs, his eyes on mine, and waits.
“I’m here,” I say.
“Good.”
He kisses my hip first. Then the inside of my knee. Works his way up — slow, deliberate, the man who has never been in a hurry with me taking his time on purpose — and my hands fist in the couch cushion because I don’t know what else to do with them.
He pauses with his mouth two inches from where I want him. Looks up at me.
“Tell me what you want.”
“Your mouth.”
“Where.”
“Jax.”
“Where, Nova.”
“On me. Please.”
He laps my slit. I make a sound I have never made for him before.
He works me — slow first, the flat of his tongue, the press of his mouth, finding the rhythm my body wants and giving it back to me on his own time. One hand on my hip holding me down. The other sliding up, splaying across my stomach, holding me to him.
“Jax—”
