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What a mind fuck.
I had hoped Kai was lying. I had hoped that Jazz hadn’t kissed him. But she did. That felt like a sucker punch to the gut. And yet, when she explained it with sincerity in her eyes and assured me that I was the one she wanted…only me, it was as if a restrained beast had been unleashed. In that moment, I no longer cared about my brother’s claims. I wanted to possess her, stake my claim, and mark her as officially and irrevocably mine.
Now, as I come down from my high, reminders from the dinner breathe down my neck, and all the reasons why I shouldn’t have these feelings for her poke at me with needle-sharp persistence.
Attuned to my growing tension, Jazz looks at me with her big brown eyes, questioning. “Are you regretting this?”
“No…”
“But?” she prompts, filling in the word that hangs silently in the air.
“We should talk.”
She gently lifts off my lap, leaving me feeling bereft when I slip wetly out of her, which is only a glimpse of how I’d feel without Jazz in my life. If this was just sex, as it was intended to be, it would be simple. But this situation is far from that. Thoughts of Kai and my mother invade my mind, neither of whom I want to be thinking about with my dick hanging out. I retreat to the bathroom, dispose of the condom, and pull on my joggers.
Jazz stands by the bed, wrapped in the sheet, when she would normally be confident in her nakedness. It’s a sign that she’s feeling vulnerable and unsure. I hate that I’m the cause.
I retrieve a T-shirt from my drawer for her, opting for a white one since it’s the closest I have to something bright.
“Thanks,” she says in a small voice, and puts it on.
“Hungry?” I ask. “I got you chips.”
WTF, Foster? She doesn’t care about potato chips right now.
But perhaps she does, because my offer elicits a smile. “Are they made with chickpea dust or something?”
“No.” I laugh, breaking some of the tension. “They’re the real deal, filled with sodium and maltodextrin.”
“Yum.”
I extend my hand and look into her eyes. “Believe me, Jazz, I have no regrets about you. Not a single one.”
“Wow!” she exclaims as I swing open my cupboard, revealing a treasure trove of chips in every flavour and brand. “This is truly one of the most romantic things anyone has ever done for me.”
“That doesn’t say much for the sorry excuses of men from your past.”
“On the contrary, Foster.” She scans the assortment. “I’ve been given flowers and taken out to fancy dinners. One guy even filled a bath with rose petals. But romance isn’t just about the grand gestures. It’s about thoughtfulness and the intention to please the other person. Your gesture checks off those boxes.” She places a hand over the left side of her chest, her eyes welling up with tears. “I’m genuinely touched.”
I feel my throat constrict. Jazz brings out a softer side of me, a side that feels unfamiliar yet somehow so right with her. I brush away a tear. “Orgasms and chips make you cry.”
“No, the orgasms you give me and your thoughtful gestures make me cry. Everything’s just more intense with you.”
“Doesn’t that scare you?”
“Not at all,” she says without a shred of doubt. I envy her ability to not question her feelings.
I get her a bowl, which she declines and rips open a bag of plain Hard Bites, and eats directly from it.
“That’syour choice, out of all the options?”
“What can I say?” She shrugs adorably and takes a crunchy bite. “I like my chips with just salt. And for future reference, just vanilla for ice cream.”
“Says the woman who would paint the world pink.”
“I don’t need to make sense, Leo. And neither do we.”
I gaze at her, unsure of how to respond, which is often the case with Jazz. She lives in the moment, while I live in my head.
