Chapter 8
I wake to a heavy, warm weight pinning me to the mattress.
Jordan's arm is slung across my waist, his palm spread low on my stomach, his face buried in the curve of my neck. He's breathing slow and deep against my skin, every exhale a warm puff that raises goosebumps along my spine.
After everything we’ve done together, you’d think I’d be used to waking up this way. I’m not. Not even close.
For a moment, I just lie here and memorize it. The quiet. The steady drum of his heart at my back. The way our legs are tangled in an impossible knot under the sheets.
It's been two months since the night I turned eighteen. I've woken up like this once every other weekend since. I should feel… I don't know. Different. Older. Marked. Instead, I just feel settled. Like this is where I've belonged all along.
Sex with Jordan was beyond anything I imagined. I thought he broke my brain that first morning. How laughable. That was him being gentle.
Now I know what happens when he’s not—when he’s hungry, territorial, and undone by too many days apart. When I’ve been teasing him with photos that technically show nothing, but say everything—my collarbone, the curve of my knee, a flash of hipbone.
And last night, the moment he texted me he'd touched down in Henderson, I replied with a picture of me in his bed, wearing nothing but his shirt and burying my nose in his collar.
He didn’t respond.
Instead, he crashed into the house like a storm. He barely made it past the door before tossing his duffel aside and grabbing his belt buckle, yanking it free in one smooth pull.
"Hello, love," he rasped, moving toward me like a predator.
"Er, Jordan—?" I began, backing up until my knees hit the couch.
He was on me in a flash, binding my wrists behind my back with his belt and muffling my mock protests with his mouth. Then he yanked up his shirt, hooked my calves over his shoulders, and took me with ruthless intensity.
I screamed myself hoarse. Then begged for more.
I saw another glimpse of the man beneath the one who waits for me, who asks permission with every move. I saw him lose his ironclad control. Watched his mind fracture with need.
And God help me, I loved that I could do that to him.
“Are you snoring on me again?” I mumble into the pillow.
He makes a rough, sleepy sound that vibrates against my shoulder. “I don’t snore.”
“You did this half-growl, half-dying-engine thing all night. You’re doing it again.”
His lips move against my skin. “That wasn’t snoring. That was me trying to survive after all your... enthusiasm.”
I elbow him lightly in the ribs. “Excuse you. You ravished me.”
“You were a menace too,” he rasps, voice thick with sleep and something darker. “You clamped so hard around my cock, I thought I’d suffocate.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “Jordan. You’re so… so bad.”
“And you,” he chuckles, sliding his hand up to cup my breast, “are sore.”
He says the word like it’s his favorite flavor, brushing his thumb lazily over my nipple. It tightens instantly, and my breath catches. My thighs clench together on instinct, trying to soothe the low, needy ache that’s been humming since I opened my eyes.
“Jordan,” I murmur.
“Yeah, baby?” he asks, all innocence—already rolling his hips just enough that the thick length of him nudges against me.
“I thought you said you’d let me sleep.”
“I changed my mind.” He nuzzles behind my ear. “You make very compelling arguments in the daylight.”
I laugh weakly. “I can barely move my legs, caveman.”
He goes still at that, hand slipping back down to my stomach, flat and protective. “Too much? Are you hurting?”
God. The way he switches from filthy to careful in a heartbeat. That might undo me more than anything he actually does to my body.
“No,” I say honestly, turning in his arms so I can see him. His hair’s a mess, flopping into his eyes. His jaw’s rough with stubble. He looks devastatingly gorgeous and completely undone. “Well—yes. A little. But it feels good, too.”
Relief flashes in his eyes before that sinful smile curves his mouth. “Minx.”
He kisses me—slow, deep, unhurried. Morning breath and all—I don’t care. His hand cups my hip, pulling me halfway on top of him.
I start to move, grinding against him slowly, helplessly, heat flooding back into my limbs.
He groans, low and rough. “That right there? That’s how you end up not walking straight. And your dad already wants me dead. Let’s not give him evidence.”
I bury my face in his chest. “My dad doesn’t know about us. I’ve been very, very discreet, Mr. Farrington.”
“And yet you’re still writhing against me.” He topples me, then rolls over me, pinning me with a wicked grin as he tickles my sides until I’m gasping. “I suggest you don’t go home with a waddle that says, I’ve just been fucked by Daddy’s boss.”
“Jordan!” I squeal, smacking his shoulder, my face burning.
“Good morning, my love.” He kisses my temple. “Let’s get us fed.”
“Morning,” I whisper, tucking my face against his neck.
I still can’t get used to the way he calls me his love. Like it’s as natural as breathing. But I know he means it. Jordan Farrington is in love with me.
And as for me... I love him too. So bad it feels like gravity. Like the universe quietly tilted overnight, and now its pull isn’t down but sideways—straight into this man’s arms.
I just haven’t said it out loud yet.
His fridge, as usual, is a crime scene.
“Jordan,” I say, staring into it like it might attack, “please explain the biology experiment happening on your bottom shelf.”
He leans against the kitchen counter. “That’s… leftover takeout.”
“It’s fuzzy.” I turn around and stare at him. “Leftover food should not have fur.”
“It adds texture.” He shrugs, entirely too casual, the gray T-shirt stretching over his chest in a way that makes my mouth go dry. I mentally kick myself and re-focus on the conversation.
Jordan grabs a mug, no doubt ready to make his decadent coffee. “Besides, why cook when they invented delivery?”
“You know some people use these things—” I lift a limp bag of wilting spinach— “to avoid heart attacks before forty.”
His gaze drops to my bare legs. I’m still wearing his T-shirt and no panties. His eyes darken, the corner of his mouth tipping up. “I’m pretty sure my heart’s going to give out because of you, not my diet.”
He obviously has no clue how close I am to jumping his bones. I turn back to the fridge before I combust. “Flattery will not save you from scurvy. Or diabetes.”
I manage to rescue some eggs, bread, and a sad-looking orange that is still, miraculously, alive. A few minutes later I have toast going, eggs scrambling in a pan, the orange massacred into segments on a plate.
Jordan pads up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist while I cook. “I like this.”
“What? Watching me single-handedly wrestle your cholesterol down?”
He rests his chin on my shoulder. “You. In my kitchen. Bossing me around.” His voice goes quiet. “Feels like a life I could get addicted to.”
Something soft and terrified flutters under my ribs. “You kind of already are addicted,” I say lightly, trying to manage my own heart. “You can’t even make toast without calling me.”
“Hey, that happened only once!”
“It took you three phone calls and a smoke alarm,” I remind him.
The phone on the counter buzzes, screen facing up. 'Houston' flashes across the display.
Jordan’s body tightens around me. It’s subtle, but I feel it. His arms don’t loosen, but his jaw locks against my shoulder, the easy warmth draining out of him like someone opened a valve at his spine.
I turn my head just enough to see his face. His eyes are fixed on the phone, suddenly flat and hard.
He ignores the call.
“Work?” I ask.
“Spam,” he replies.
Liar.
I slide the eggs onto plates and face him fully, crossing my arms. “You do this thing with your jaw when you lie, you know.”
One dark brow lifts. “Do I?”
“You grind your teeth. Right here.” I tap his jaw. “And your eyes go all Wall Street murdery.”
He stares at me, a flicker of surprise in his eyes.
For a moment, it’s like I’ve held a mirror up to him—and he didn’t realize the reflection.
Then he exhales, running a hand through his hair.
“Jesus. Four years bluffing through negotiations with trained strategists and my high school girlfriend reads me like a book.”
I wrinkle my nose. His high school girlfriend. It should sound patronizing—it doesn’t. Not with the way he’s looking at me like I’m his ruin. And his salvation. “Whatever. Why's Houston calling?”
He looks away. When his eyes return to mine, they’re softer. “They're trying to get my office set up."
"What do you mean?"
"I should resume in Houston next week. My time in Henderson and Bakersfield is done.”
My stomach plummets. Jordan is leaving. I knew he was going to leave, but somehow I just didn't think… “You’re going to Houston?”
He nods. “My final rotation."
"Okay. And then what?"
"Then I'm off to Yale Business School. Another compulsory flaming hoop to jump through as Apex Energy’s heir apparent.”
The venom in his voice stings so much that I set my breaking heart aside. “You sound bitter. I know it sucks… but Jordan, you're also closer than ever to what you want."
"What is it you think I want?" He asks.
I shrug like it should be obvious to him. "To be CEO of Apex.”
He exhales, shoulders stiff as he stares out of the window. “Eighteen-year-old me wanted it. Twenty-three-year-old me… sometimes I feel like my life was scripted before I was even born."
Something twists painfully in my chest.
“I don’t want to go back,” he whispers. “Not to Houston. Not to...”
He doesn’t have to finish. I know what he means. Not to real life.
Real life.
I don't want to face reality either. The reality that Jordan doesn't belong here. He's meant to be in New York, heading the multi-billion dollar company and influencing energy bills. Not in the arms of an infatuated teenage girl in the backwoods of Nevada.
I lean my hip against the counter, studying him. Jordan Farrington has the whole world in his palm—money, power, looks. But underneath the polish and control and obscene competence, he's... just a boy.
And suddenly I see the shape of his life in a way I didn't before. A chessboard. He's the first son, the king piece they keep pushing across the board. His moves preplanned. His future mortgaged out to the family name.
“You can be yourself with me, you know,” I say softly.
His eyes lock on mine. For a long, taut moment the air between us feels denser. “Oh, I know. Christ, baby, do I fucking know.”
And it hits me like a punch. He needs me. Not just for sex or distraction. But as the one person in his life where he doesn’t have to perform.
I swallow, suddenly aware of how much bigger this is than some whirlwind summer fling.
“Eat your breakfast, Farrington,” I say, pushing the plate toward him before I melt into a puddle. “If you die young, your dynasty will be very disappointed.”
His mouth curves. “My dynasty will live. I’m more worried about what I'm going to do to you after breakfast.”
My face combusts. “You’re disgusting. I thought you said you didn't want me waddling home?”
“Eh, well, what can I say? You make a convincing argument for it.”
I roll my eyes, watching as he pops an orange segment into his mouth, then pins me with a stern gaze. “By the way, don’t think I didn’t notice us parking the fact that I'm leaving soon. We’re not done with that conversation, Sabrina Wells.”
I shrug and force a smile. “We’ll get back to it soon, I'm sure.”