Chapter 9
nine
The truck ride back to the lighthouse was the longest twenty minutes of Clara's life.
Every bump in the road jolted through her. Every time Jack's hand brushed her thigh—accidentally, deliberately, she couldn't tell anymore—her breath caught and her fingers tightened on the wheel.
Neither of them spoke. What was there to say? They'd crossed some invisible line on the beach, and now they were hurtling toward something inevitable, terrifying, and absolutely necessary—like a storm about to break.
Clara kept her eyes on the road. On the familiar turns. On anything except the way Jack was looking at her like she was the only thing in the world worth seeing.
It wasn't working. She could feel his gaze on the side of her face like a physical thing, and her body was staging a full mutiny against the part of her brain still trying to be sensible about this.
When she finally pulled into the lighthouse drive and killed the engine, the sudden silence was deafening, broken only by their ragged breaths.
"Clara—" Jack started, his voice rough, edged with hunger.
She kissed him.
It was more of a face launch than some gentle exploration. She reached across the truck's bench seat and hauled him to her, crashing their mouths together with all the pent-up want she'd been holding back for two weeks.
Jack made a surprised, guttural sound in the back of his throat, then his hands were fisting in her hair, tilting her head back as he kissed her like a man starved, his tongue sweeping in to claim her with a possessiveness that sent sparks racing down her spine.
They broke apart gasping, foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling hot and fast.
"Inside," Clara managed, her voice husky, barely recognizable. "We should—"
"Yeah." The word was a growl.
They stumbled out of the truck—Clara's hands were definitely shaking now—and up the path to the lighthouse.
Jack kept touching her. Small, insistent touches.
His hand pressing firmly at the small of her back, guiding her with a heat that seeped through her shirt.
His fingers threading through hers, squeezing just enough to make her knees weaken.
Like he needed the contact to anchor himself, to believe this fire between them was real.
Clara knew the feeling all too well—her body hummed with it, every nerve ending alive and begging for more.
She fumbled with the keys, dropping them once, swearing under her breath as they clattered on the stone step.
Jack pressed against her from behind, his solid chest to her back, his mouth finding the sensitive curve of her neck.
He nipped lightly, then soothed with his tongue, sending shivers cascading through her until she forgot how keys worked entirely.
"You're not helping," she gasped, arching back into him despite herself.
"Not trying to help." His teeth grazed her pulse point, harder this time, drawing a whimper from her lips. "Trying to drive you crazy."
"Mission accomplished," she breathed, her voice trembling as desire coiled tighter in her gut.
Finally—good God, finally—the door swung open.
They spilled inside, Clara turning in Jack's arms before he'd even kicked it shut behind them.
His back hit the wall with a thud that echoed through the empty space, and she was on him, hands fisted in his shirt, mouth claiming his like she had every right to it—because maybe she did.
Maybe they both did, in this stolen moment.
Jack's hands found her waist, yanking her flush against him with a force that stole her breath.
She could feel every hard line of his body pressing into hers, the searing heat of him through their clothes, the way his breath hitched when she bit his lower lip, tugging just enough to make him groan deep in his chest.
"Bedroom?" he managed between kisses, his voice strained, lips swollen from hers.
"Too far. Couch." Her words were clipped, urgent.
"Couch works."
They stumbled toward it, a frantic tangle of limbs and desperate want, shedding shoes and jackets along the way. Clara's back hit the cushions first, and Jack followed her down, bracing himself on his forearms so his weight pinned her just right—firm but not crushing.
His hips settled between her thighs, the hard ridge of him grinding against her core through their remaining clothes, and—oh God—the friction sent a bolt of pleasure straight through her, making her arch up into him with a needy moan.
Jack groaned, dropping his forehead to her shoulder, his body shuddering. "Clara. Jesus. You're killing me here. You're so damn hot."
"If you stop now, I'll murder you," she threatened, half-laughing, half-serious, her nails digging into his back.
He chuckled, breathless and rough, the sound vibrating against her skin. "Wasn't planning to stop. Just trying to... slow down. Make sure you're with me."
"I'm sure." She pulled his face up to meet her eyes, her gaze fierce. "I want this. I want you. All of you."
Something in his expression shifted—went soft and intense all at once, like she'd handed him a gift he didn't deserve. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He kissed her again. Slower this time. Deeper.
Like he was savoring her, memorizing the taste of her lips, the way her tongue danced with his.
His hands roamed up her sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts through her shirt, teasing the sensitive skin until her breath stuttered and her nipples hardened painfully against the fabric.
Sam had never—
No. Absolutely not. Sam didn't get to exist in this moment. This was hers. Jack's. Theirs—raw and real and burning.
But her body tensed anyway. Old instincts. Old fears creeping in like shadows.
Jack noticed immediately. Pulled back, his hazel eyes searching her face with concern. "You okay? We can—"
"Yeah. I just—" Clara forced herself to breathe, to push the ghosts away. "It's been a while. Since I... with anyone. And it's... intense."
Understanding flickered across his face, softening his features. "We can stop. If you're not ready—"
"I don't want to stop." The words came out fierce, defiant. "I want this. I want you. I'm just... nervous. Which is stupid. I'm thirty-four years old, I shouldn't be nervous about—"
Jack kissed her. Soft. Gentle. Silencing her spiral with tenderness that made her heart flutter like a teenager with her first crush.
"It's not stupid," he murmured against her lips, his thumb stroking her cheek. "And we go at your pace. Whatever you need. Okay? I'm here for you."
Something in Clara's chest cracked open wide—vulnerable and warm. When was the last time someone had asked what she needed? When had anyone cared about her pace, her comfort, like it was sacred?
"Okay," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.
Jack smiled—that small, crooked smile that did devastating things to her pulse—and kissed her again.
Less urgent now. More deliberate. Like he had all the time in the world and planned to use every second learning every inch of her mouth, how she liked to be touched.
His tongue slid against hers in a slick, sensual motion that ignited something deep inside her.
Something she hadn't felt in so long it felt foreign.
His hands moved to the hem of her shirt. Paused there, waiting. She wordlessly nodded because she didn't trust her voice not to come out as a guttural croak that might scare the desire out of both of them.
He pulled her shirt over her head with reverent care, like she was something precious, fragile yet unbreakable. His gaze traveled over her—sports bra, nothing fancy, she hadn't exactly planned for this—and heat flooded his expression, his pupils dilating as he took her in.
"Beautiful," he murmured, his voice low and reverent.
"I-I don't own any fancy bras," she said, self-conscious, her cheeks heating.
"It's you." He traced the line of her collarbone with his fingertips, light as a whisper, making her shiver. "You're beautiful, Clara. Every damn inch."
Her throat tightened. Sam used to catalog her flaws like a checklist: too pale, freckles in weird places, breasts too small, hips too wide. She'd learned to undress in the dark, to hide, to apologize for her body just by existing in it.
Jack was looking at her like she was art—flawed and perfect and his.
"Your turn," Clara said, tugging at his shirt to even the score, her fingers trembling with eagerness.
He sat back enough to yank it over his head in one fluid motion, and—
Oh.
She'd seen him shirtless before, working on the shutters, sweat glistening on his skin.
But this was different. This was broad shoulders and defined muscles honed from actual labor, not gym vanity.
Freckles scattered across his chest like stars.
A jagged scar on his ribs she wanted to trace with her tongue later, learn its story by heart.
Clara reached out, traced the line of his sternum with her palm. His skin was scorching under her touch, his heartbeat thundering like a drum.
"See something you like?" Jack asked, his voice rough, laced with amusement and desire.
She nodded, her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. He was gorgeous—rugged, real, everything about him screaming strength and vulnerability intertwined. It made her want to be reckless. Fearless.
"Then by all means, keep looking at me like that," he murmured, his gaze darkening with promise. "See what happens."
She shivered, her body clenching in anticipation.
He grinned, wolfish, and lowered his mouth to her neck.
Started kissing his way down—jaw, throat, collarbone—slow and deliberate, each press of his lips igniting fire under her skin.
She desperately ripped her sports bra off and tossed it to the floor before her brain could catch up, exposing herself to the cool air and his hungry eyes.
But when Jack sucked in a tight breath, Clara fought the urge to cover herself, her cheeks burning.