48. Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Eight
Mac
Sex doesn’t solve much.
But it sure as shit feels like a number forty-two to me right about now.
I’m still in disbelief. Still in shock. Still convinced I dreamt the whole fucking thing except I’m reminded by the ache in my ass every time I move.
And it is oh-so-good .
“Stop wriggling so much,” Jordan says absentmindedly, his focus lasered in on the towel in his grip.
“Can’t help it,” I mutter through a smirk and tap my forefingers along the edge of the vanity in front of me.
Even if I wanted to, I don’t think I could. Because not only did we just get out of the shower— together —where Jordan spent time lathering my body, he’s now fixing my hair exactly as I do it without a single instruction from me.
Except … he’s deliberate. Meticulous.
Tender .
Taking a simple leave in conditioner routine and making it special.
While naked.
It’s got my chest swelling and my eyes set to heart mode.
Not to mention, I’ve been sporting a half-chub since I spunked all over my pillow.
“I haven’t done that since I was a teenager, you know,” I say out loud as his fingers work through my strands again, this time with the leave-in shit coating them.
“What’s that?”
He takes his time, running the product through, then scrunching the ends up tight to my scalp with the towel. It feels so damn good that I almost forget to answer.
“Coming on my pillow,” I respond, half-dazed and all the way relaxed.
His sight flicks up in the mirror, his head giving a slight disbelieving shake. “Can’t say that I ever have.”
The easy smirk I was toting drops. “You never used a pillow before?”
“For what ?”
I snort and sink back into the way his hands work over my head. Pretty sure he’s just doing the same thing all over again as an excuse to keep his hands on me.
“For sex,” I mutter, my hands falling to my lap, thumbs tapping a gentle rhythm on my knees.
“Ah, no.”
“Shame, Tyro.” My eyes fall shut. “I’ll have to show you later.”
His hands stutter in my hair. It’s so brief that I dismiss it, my energy too zapped to do anything except follow the way they recover.
“What color?” he murmurs sometime later, his hands reluctantly leaving my head.
I hum in thought, drifting in that space between where consciousness meets fantasy and answer “Orange.”
With gentle fingers, Jordan ties a bandana around my forehead, securing the ends at the back, just like I do.
Something light brushes over my cheekbone and I crack an eye open with a softening smile to find Jordan staring down at me. He’s wearing that endearing as fuck almost grin tipping the corner of his lips.
My gut explodes in tingling flutters and I turn into the warmth of his touch.
“Orange suits you, Vida.”
Pressing a smiling kiss to his palm, I reach for his hips and tug until he’s standing between my spread knees. The height of the barstool I’m on puts his chest right in my face.
The moment feels so delicate as I wrap my arms around his ass and plant kisses along his abs, but there’s a question burning into my subconscious. An answer I need to know, though I can’t explain why , considering all the things I should be asking him after what has happened in the last few hours.
Things like: How would you rate your experience here today, and more importantly, where the fuck do we go from here?
I sigh against his skin when my mind threatens to shatter the bubble we’ve planted ourselves in and rest my chin on his sternum to look up at him.
“Can I ask you something?”
He tips his chin and cups my face, his calloused thumbs brushing over my cheeks. “Sure.”
“What … were you dreaming about?”
He stiffens against me, his features hardening.
“I … my …”
His throat bobs with a swallow and my chest tightens as his eyes glaze over.
“Never mind,” I rush out and squeeze him to me, flattening my cheek against him. “You don’t have to say anything.”
Hands to my shoulders, he gives me a squeeze right back. “You deserve an explanation.”
A lump forms in my throat.
Is this where the bubble pops?
Please tell me I didn’t just fuck everything up.
He sighs something deep and pulls back, taking the tranquility of the moment with him as my hold breaks.
That peace I held onto snaps when Jordan steps back.
“Mac,” he mutters, and I shake my head.
“Forget I said anything.”
What have I done?
Heat rises in my chest, curling up in a ball of regret and hurt and just when I think he’s going to leave …
He kneels in front of me.
“Vida.”
I can’t look at him. My heart too heavy, my love too deep for a rejection to come so soon.
I slept with him. Fucking fuck, what did I do?
“Hey, hey, hey, look at me.”
Jordan cups my face again and draws my sight up, up, up until it crashes with his.
“I’ve been having nightmares,” he answers and my stomach twists up. “That’s all.”
It doesn’t feel like it’s that simple .
I swallow.
“And, uh … you were in it.”
My heart sinks and my stomach twists all up. “Me?”
A single dip of his chin is his answer and judging by the resounding silence after it, it’s all the answer I’m going to get.
“That … sucks,” I murmur and pull back, pushing to my feet.
I don’t know what else to say or how else to transition from something that feels so fucking heavy. Something that’s his to know and mine to not.
Even though it’s big enough that he … fuck, he needed me after.
Slept with me. Another man.
Has that even sunk in for him?
A wave of anxiety rolls right over me and plants its ugly head right in my sternum.
What happens when it does?
“Mac.”
I turn to find him, still on his knees where I left him—fuck, he’s a sight—with a grit to my jaw.
“It’s just a nightmare, okay?”
Shaking my head, I walk away.
Because with us … it’s never that damn simple.