Page 155 of Summer Love

I take his hand and pull him toward the bed. He lies back, one arm folded under his head, naked in the harsh light of the lamp clipped to the bed frame.

I sit down next to him.

My fingers return to the scar. I explore it again, top to bottom, gently. The tissue is strange—alive and dead at once, areas that don’t react at all, others where I feel the muscle flinch under the skin. Jace closes his eyes.

No one ever took the time to do this.

I lean down and press my lips to the scar, where the skin is numb. Jace goes still. I don’t move, my cheek against his thigh. His fingers slide into my hair. Neither of us speaks.

I hear the waves outside and Jace’s breathing settling.

“Summer…” he murmurs.

I lift my head. His eyes are open. He looks at me, vulnerable.

“Come here.”

I lie down beside him. He turns to me and kisses me. A soft kiss, almost hesitant. Then his hand slides down my back and the kiss turns more urgent.

He pulls the sweatshirt over my head, then the T-shirt. He tosses them to the foot of the bed. His fingers undo the clasp of my bra.

The way he’s looking at me… It’s too much. I look away.

His hands move down to my hips and undo the button of my shorts. The rest follows. There’s nothing left between us.

Jace moves over me and a flicker of a grimace crosses his face.

“Wait,” I say, putting a hand on his chest. “Let’s try it another way.”

“It’s not a big deal if it pulls…”

I shake my head.

“It is.”

I put my hands on his shoulders and ease him onto his back. Surprised, he stares at me. I move over him and brace myself on his chest.

“This okay?”

He nods. His hands come back to me. To my hips, my ass, my breasts. They linger, explore.

Then he reaches for the drawer under the bed, opens it, and feels around. He pulls out a condom and meets my eyes.

“You want to?”

“Yes.”

He tears the wrapper. His fingers shake a little.

We adjust. It’s slow, not quite smooth. But it’s the two of us against it, and that’s enough. Jace pulls me to him and kisses me again.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

The question takes me back six years. He’d asked ten times, and every time, I’d said yes.

Did he mean it?

I push the thought away, out of habit.