Looks at me.
I look at her.
Neither of us moves for a second.
Then she gets off the stool.
I get off mine.
We don’t say anything.
She heads down the hall.
I follow.
Thank Christ.
The lamp in my bedroom is the one she likes — the low one, the one that doesn’t reach the corners.
We barely make it to the bed.
She’s on me before I get my shirt off, hands fisted in the hem and pulling and I have to break the kiss to let her get it over my head and the second it’s gone she’s back on my mouth and I get a hand under her shirt and feel skin and that’s it for me. My brain checks out.
I kiss her hard enough to make her grunt against my mouth — that low sound she makes when something’s catching her off guard, the one I learned in Pittsburgh and have been chasing since — and I pull her shirt up and she lifts her arms and it’s gone. Bra. Lace. Front clasp. I get it open one-handed and her tits are in my hands and her mouth is on mine and I am not going to survive this.
I’m hard enough through my jeans to hurt. She’s grinding against the front of them like she knows it. She knows it.
I get her on her back. Mouth still on hers. I drag my hand down her side to her hip and back up to her ribs and across her stomach and down again because I cannot pick a spot to stay, every part of her is the part I want to be touching, and her hands are everywhere too — my back, my shoulders, into my hair, dragging me down — and I bite down on the side of her neckbecause I want to and because I know she’ll see it tomorrow and because right now I don’t care.
“Jax —”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t stop.”
“Wasn’t going to.”
She’s breathing in short ragged pulls under me and I’m pretty sure I’m doing the same. Her hand finds the front of my jeans. Through the fabric. Squeezes.
“Fuck,” I say into her neck.
“Yeah?”
“Fuck, Nova.”
I’m pulsing against her hand. She’s not letting up. Her other hand is in my hair pulling me down and I’m trying to get my mouth back on hers and the sound she’s making when I roll my hips against her is going to live in my head for the rest of my life.
I get a hand to the button of her jeans.
Pop it.
Get the zipper.
Hook my fingers in the waistband and start pulling them down —
Her hand finds my shoulder.
Stops me.
