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“Oh. You mean they’d think it was ‘gay.’” If that was the case, she didn’t like his ‘brothers.’ She felt too good to let that make a deep dent, but it did a sideswipe.
Jake shook his head. “No, I don’t mean that. Just ... not cool. Not tough.”
She wanted to tell him it wasn’t good to hide parts of himself from the important people in his life, but several times over dinner, she’d felt like she was talking too much, turning a conversation into a lecture, so didn’t fall into that trap again now.
She’d also told him her age during dinner, and while he’d said he’d figured she was older, and he hadn’t seemed unsettled by the nine-year gap, she didn’t want to put herself in the position of teacher or get anywhere near any kind of power differential like that.
Thus, she said, “I don’t know, you finished that big ape off handily. That was pretty tough in my book.”
He laughed. “Thanks.” His expression became serious, and he stared into her eyes. “I hate that he put his hand on you. I should’ve taken it off.”
She was pretty sure he was exaggerating, but just in case: “No, you shouldn’t have. What you did was exactly right—you stopped him and got rid of him, and it didn’t ruin our night. Taking his hand off would’ve ruined our night.” How would he have done that, anyway? Did he have a bone saw in his pants?
“I like you so much, Petra. I feel different when I’m with you. I hope it’s okay to say that.”
“It is. I like you a lot, too. And I feel different when I’m with you, too. So yeah, it’s okay to say it. Like we talked about, communication is good. Even when it’s not professions of mutual appreciation. It’s better to say what we need, what we fear, what we want, what we don’t want. Right?”
“Right.”
“Good.” She hooked her hand in the placket of his shirt. “So. In the interest of clear communication, I’ll tell you that I would like to ride your big, fat, gorgeous ... “ she let the pause linger for a while as she slid her hand down his chest, over his belly, teasing, “Harleyback to my apartment and take you upstairs to fuck until we’re unconscious. Thoughts?”
He grinned. “Only one: What the fuck are we waiting for?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Petra flopped ontoJay’s chest with gasping sigh. He summoned the last dregs of strength in his body and hoisted his arms up to wrap her tightly against him. He’d come so hard his vision was still wonky, full of sparks and shadows.
“Jesus fuck,” he said on an exhale.
She laughed, and he felt it moving all through her, against him. “My thoughts exactly,” she muttered.
Last night was definitely in his top ten. First, Petra had come looking for him. With his father’s words at the party—when he’d basically called him a worthless pussy—ringing in his head, he’d decided to take a ‘strategic risk’ and go for something he wanted, so he’d left that note on her car. And immediately regretted laying himself out like that, just begging to be ridiculed, rejected, or simply ignored.
Then Sunday had passed without word from her, and then Monday, and he’d known she was ignoring him. He’d blown it. Until she’d walked into the shop on Tuesday afternoon and said she wanted to talk.
They’d had a date! An actual date, dinner and dancing. He hadn’t had anything resembling a real date since senior prom. The dancing had been amazing—he’d never shared that secret with anyone else—and the fucking afterward had been spectacular, but dinner had been the very best part. He didn’t think he’d ever had a conversation so deep with anyone else in his life. Ever.
They’d talked about a lot, mostly having to do with how and whether they were going to try to be a couple—something else he hadn’t done since high school. Petra had a lot to say about communication. She was like his mom in that way, insisting that the pain of bottling hurts and worries up was much worse than the discomfort of saying a difficult truth. Jay didn’t disagree, but he really sucked at putting himself out there, emotionally speaking.
Which might be a point for his father’s opinion that he was a pussy.
However, getting another chance with Petra had galvanized him, and by the time their tiramisu had arrived, she’d gotten him to say pretty much everything he was worried about, regarding her and whatever ‘them’ there was—because being straight with her was the only way to explain why he’d run from her apartment.
It had taken him a while to get the really hard shit out, but eventually he’d said it: he was afraid he wasn’t good enough for her, and he’d wanted to get ahead of it before she realized it.
