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I can’t help but smile like a fool at the weirdest thought ever—I want to take Jace’s virginity.
Jace Reed, you’re mine.
Another thought flickers in my mind. What if he has performance issues? I should ask. Rude? Probably. But he had no issues the other day when he stroked himself in front of me. WhenIdid it.
All the bits of the new info collide in my mind like a pack of flies.
Deployment… Right, he said he served. I never asked what he did.
A sniper? It’s a job, right? That’s what soldiers do, they fight the enemy.
Orphan? I knew that and noticed how emotional he gets when I do nice things for him. I always had a family. Technically, I have two fathers. Being alone in New York occasionally makes me miserable, but back home, I have people. Jace doesn’t have aback home. He has no one but Roey.
Tears well up in my eyes.
What’s with me and crying today?
I feel conflicted and sad. I really want to be angry, but at the end of the day, I want to go home and cook Jace dinner and talk and kiss and—
That’s where it always ends.
My ice cream is gone, though I don’t remember eating it. I need a whole tub of ice cream to calm myself.
And here’s the naked truth. I wish I was eating it with Jace. No matter what I do, I wish for him to be next to me.
And here I am, miserable and by myself while Jace, who let me in on his secrets, probably feels horrible. At home. Alone…
Going up the elevator to my condo, I feel like crap because I let Jace down. Secrets are not always a choice but a self-preservation mechanism. By the time I reach the condo, I feel guilty.
The living room is empty. The door to Jace’s room is closed.
Pushkin springs to his feet and wobbles up to me.
“Hey, cutie,” I murmur, kick off my boots, walk to my room, and freeze.
My painting is the way it was this morning—clean, not a trace of the mess I left behind. No yellow paint on the plastic floor. No smashed paint jar.
My chest tightens.
This is my Jace. How does he do it? How does he make my heart swell up to enormous proportions and fill it with so many emotions? It’s a talent he doesn’t know he has, and I should be grateful for him instead of brooding about things he didn’t tell me about.
I walk out into the living room and see Jace at the kitchen island, his hands propped on the counter, eyes on me.
“Lu, I’m sorry,” he says softly.
Feeling like my knees will buckle, I walk over to him.
Every day, he makes me feel more vulnerable, and I have a hard time keeping my feelings inside.
So I don’t.
“Iam sorry, Jace,” I murmur as I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him in for a kiss that I probably need more than he does. “I got a little upset, but I’m not angry. I just wish you told me things instead of hiding them.”
I can kiss him until he forgets the lonely places he came from. Until he feels like he finally has a home. Until he stops hiding his past, afraid that it somehow makes him less than who he is. Until he realizes that’s what made him so strong. Until I know we are good.
His hands slide to the back of my thighs, and, in one swift movement, he lifts me and sits me on the counter.
Those hands can handle a sniper rifle, rude jerks, and a paint mess. They make the best bacon and touch me in a way that makes me forget how to breathe. I want those hands to be mine.
