Page 55 of Lessons in Lemonade

I’m not hurting him. He knows where we stand, and I think he’s always known what we could be, because he’s done this before. Maybe I should have figured this out and considered my options with him sooner.

“You ready?” he asks, a breeze blowing up off the street and ruffling his hair—hair I had my hands in earlier.

I know he’s just asking if I’m ready to go home, but after listening to Taylor and Shelby talk about hot sexual tension, those two words have shaped a different question in my head: Am I ready for more? What that more includes, I don’t know, but when it’s just me and him, things do feel right. Things feel easy.

“I am,” I say, almost shyly. His smile grows even more, showing his dimples, which I love so much.

“All right, then let’s go home.” He takes a step, our fingers lace together, and I fall into place next to him, thinking about the word home.

Home has always been a place, but right this second, it sure feels like him. I feel at home with him, and I like it.

Once we get there, we move to our sections of the house as if on autopilot and proceed to wash off the day. There’s no question as to our routine; it’s the same one we’ve been going through for weeks. Home, shower, change into something comfortable, cook dinner together, eat either outside, in the dining room, or on the couch, and then we curl up together in front of the television with a dessert, usually cookies since they seem to be his favorites. Although, after that kiss this morning and how I’m feeling now, I can’t help but wonder if maybe tonight will be different. Do I want it to be different? Does he?

That question is answered as I round the corner to head into the kitchen at the same moment the door to the bathroom in his hallway swings open and steam floats through the air. Jack steps out and goes to turn toward his room, but he comes to a stop when he sees I’m standing there frozen. Sure, I’ve seen him in a towel before, but after everything that’s happened today, it just feels like so much more, and a blush burns up my neck and into my cheeks.

“Meg,” he says, his voice a little lower and deeper than usual. I know I should move, but I can’t.

Silence falls over us for a few breaths, and the light in the hallway brightens as the steam clears. Dragging my eyes up from the shadowed dips over his hip bones to his face, I find his dark eyes even darker than usual, the lids lowered halfway. With his wet hair falling over his forehead, his straight nose, and his smooth jawline, I realize everything, just everything about him is perfect.

“Can’t you be flawed somewhere?” I ask him, my eyes falling to his chest to peruse each and every muscle on display.

“I have flaws . . . you know I do,” he answers lowly, watching me.

I want there to be a hint of a smile in his words, but there isn’t. They are heated and a tiny bit vulnerable.

“You know, this isn’t the first time you’ve looked at me like this, and I gotta say, I like it. I like it a lot, Meg.” He takes a step closer to me and my eyes return to his. His vulnerability seems to have dissipated with the steam; these words are bold—bolder than I am.

“How? How am I looking at you?” I ask, tilting my head up to get a better look at him.

Color blooms high on his cheeks and he runs his tongue over his bottom lip. “Hmm,” he murmurs, dragging his weighted gaze over the entire length of me. “Like I’m the last bit of batter in the bowl and you can’t wait to swipe your finger through it then lick it clean.”

Oh my.

“That’s descriptive,” I whisper, my heart rate and my breathing picking up.

“Isn’t it, though? And accurate,” he says assuredly, taking another step closer.

“It’s just”—I wave my hand toward his shoulders, chest—“and the . . .”—his stomach, hips, the soft dusting of dark hair that leads down to the bulge slowly, which is getting larger under the towel. “You’re perfect,” I mumble in a low groan.

As if in a trance, I watch as he slowly lifts his right hand and undoes the knot of the towel around his waist. It drops to the floor, puddling at his feet. I stop breathing as I take in all of him, from feet to waist, and oh my God, Jack is naked in front of me. Naked.

A tiny noise escapes me as I’m rewarded with miles and miles of muscles on muscles and his smooth olive-colored skin. I want to look away, but I can’t. Who would? From the dip just above his collarbone down to the space where his hip meets his leg, I can see the allure of being a sculptor, because he is the perfect male specimen. I know with a clarity that’s almost disheartening he has ruined me for all other men.

Looking up, I find his eyes and see that he’s watching me take him in. That smoldering look of his has intensified, and my heart squeezes inside my chest. He blinks, long and slow, his dark eyelashes briefly touching his cheeks, and then his gaze is aimed back at me.

“I showed you mine—you show me yours. It’s only fair,” he teases, the side of his mouth twitching like it wants to smile. There are questions in his eyes, but the longing is winning out.

“I don’t know if I think that’s a good idea,” I tell him honestly, though I’m more than ready to throw caution to the wind.

“Are you kidding? It’s a brilliant idea.” He takes another step closer but doesn’t reach out to touch me. He’s letting me decide. It’s my choice. His cards are on the table, he wants this, and deep down I know I do too, at least once.

I reach for the hem of my shirt, his eyes flaring just a fraction as I pull it up and over my head, leaving me in my bra and tiny pajama shorts. Some of my damp hair falls free from the top knot it’s in, and I make no move to push it back. My arms fall to my sides as he looks me over just once and then says, “More.”

Heat pools low in my stomach as I tug on the drawstring to my shorts and they drop to the floor. Somewhere in the back of my head I think this is probably a bad idea, but as he lifts a finger and traces it along the top edge of my bra, a shiver runs through me and I forget everything around us. I unhook the back and together we watch as it slips to the floor.

“Damn.” He lets out an audible breath as his eyes fall to my chest, and that’s when I see exactly what me undressing in front of him has done to him. He is hard, insanely hard and long, and I can’t look away. I did this to him—me—and the part of me that wants to be a wild seductress cheers on the inside.

Feeling my insecurities slip away, I push down my underwear and step toward him as I step out of them. Lacking any self-control, I run my hands over his stomach and up his chest. He lets out a moan and tips his head back just a little but keeps his eyes on me. I know I should blink and breathe and do all those other things that are required for me to live, but I feel invincible and courageous as I run my hands back down his sides, over his hips. I push my thumbs into the space just between that delicious V and his hip bone.