Chapter 13 #2
My breath catches the moment I grasp his meaning. "Are you serious?"
"Of course." He cups my face, thumbs tracing my cheekbones. "You. Me. A half drunk priest and an Elvis impersonator. "
A laugh bursts out of me. "Elvis?"
"Or no Elvis. Your call." His eyes are dancing now. "The bottom line is, the day after your graduation, I'm making you my wife. The details are negotiable."
"Five weeks," I breathe, and then I'm pulling him back to me.
His hands are everywhere—my face, my neck, my waist, my thighs. He's spreading my legs, pulling me to the edge of the counter, and I'm wrapping them around him when I feel it.
A warm wet unmistakable gush.
Oh God.
I break the kiss, looking down between my thighs.
"Jordan." My face burns with mortification. "I'm sorry. I'm—my period. I need a minute."
He follows my gaze. His eyebrows arch as he stares. "Huh."
'Huh?' That's it? He's not freaking out?
Jordan takes a step back, then calmly opens a drawer beneath the sink. He straightens, pulling out a large paper bag with a local drugstore logo. He empties the contents onto the counter.
Tampons—dozens of them, in different sizes and absorbencies. Bottles of Advil and Tylenol. Peppermint tea. Massage oil. A hot water bottle with a plush furry cover in hot pink.
I'm speechless.
"I wasn't sure what you'd need," he says, arranging them in neat rows next to me like this is completely normal.
"You—" I stutter. "You bought tampons and—and all this stuff?"
"Of course. I've got you, baby." And then he's back to burying his face in my neck, like me bleeding all over his bathroom counter is the least interesting thing happening today.
"Jordan!" I push at his chest, making him look at me. "How did you even know what to get?"
"Meredith." He's nibbling on my throat now, working his way down.
I freeze. "You asked your baby sister for period supply advice?"
"Mm-hmm." His mouth finds the swell of my breast. "She gets them too."
Well, of course she does, she's sixteen! Despite everything, a laugh escapes me. "What did you tell her?"
"What's more interesting is what she said," he murmurs against my skin.
"What?"
"She swore she'd break my leg in three places if I broke your heart."
I melt, even as his kisses drift lower. "Your sister sounds terrifying."
"Wait till you meet my mother," he muses. Then his mouth closes over my nipple, and I gasp.
"Jordan, wait!" I say, trying to regain focus. "I'm on my period."
"I'm well fucking aware." He chuckles, tongues the hard peak, then gently suckles. Shivers run through me.
"And you still want to—"
"Why wouldn't I?" Suddenly, he pulls back to look at me, and his brows knitting with concern. "Are you hurting?"
"What?"
He puts a palm on my lower belly. "You took Toradol just now. Are you in pain?"
I nod, then shake my head. "I am, a little. But it's not my belly. It's usually my back—"
"Show me." He simply gives me his hands and waits.
Face flaming, I guide them to where it hurts most. "Here. And here." I whisper.
"Really?" He grabs the essential oil, pours some over his hands, then digs in, immediately finding pressure points I didn't even know existed.
I jump. "Oh—"
He freezes. "Too much?"
I bite my lip and shake my head, struggling to process what he's doing. I've never had a massage, let alone have one targeted for my cramps. "Have you… have you done this before?" I ask shyly. I know he's had a few girlfriends. But this… this feels too intimate.
Jordan resumes his gentle kneading, which he times with open-mouthed kisses on my skin. "For me, long gym workouts and full body massages go hand in hand. You pick up a thing or two over time. But no, baby, I've never touched anyone else like this."
He works a knot of muscle expertly and suddenly the pain transforms into something else.
"Oh God," I moan. "Oh God, that feels good."
He keeps massaging, working the knots, and I'm melting against him, the combination of pleasure and pain relief making my eyes roll back.
"Jordan," I breathe. "Jordan—I need you."
He makes a sound low in his throat and suddenly his hands are gripping my ass, lifting me off the counter.
He carries me into the massive shower, turns on the hot water, then he's pressing me against the tile wall, his mouth on mine again.
"Jordan, I'm making a mess—"
"No you're not." His voice is rough against my lips. "Besides, I don't mind. Do you?"
I search his eyes. He means it. He genuinely doesn't care.
"I—I guess not," I whisper.
"Good. Because intend to fuck you bare."
My heart pounds against my chest, and suddenly I want it too. This is probably the only time I'll have him without anything between us. And just like that, I'm fucking sold on day one sex.
He enters me slowly, carefully, and I gasp because it feels different skin to skin. More intense. More raw. I feel everything. And so does he because he throws his head back and curses. "You're so hot and tight. It's killing me not to take you hard."
"And turn your shower into a crime scene? No thanks." He arches an eyebrow when he gets my meaning. And then deliberately, he looks down, Whatever he sees makes him grin, his cock jerking hard inside me.
Men. I roll my eyes in disbelief. "You're really enjoying this, aren't you?"
He cups my face, so I can't look away. "I crave all of you, Sabrina. Not just the airbrushed version." He moves inside me, slow and deep. "I want the mess and the realness and the moments you think aren't pretty. I fucking want it all."
Tears prick at my eyes. "You're insane."
"Probably." He kisses me softly. "But I'm yours."
His thumbs find those pressure points above my hips again, digging in while he moves, and the combination is overwhelming. The relief. The pleasure. The way he's looking at me like I'm his entire world.
"Feel good?" he murmurs against my neck.
"Yes—God help me, yes—"
He continues thrusting slow and deep, his hands keeping steady pressure on my lower back.
I'm climbing fast. The combination of his body, his hands, his filthy dark promises, and the ring on my finger catching light through the water—
"Jordan—" It's part warning, part plea. "I'm close—"
"Let go, baby. I've got you." His rhythm falters and he buries his face in my neck. "Christ, Sabrina. I can't wait to be your husband."
The words push me over the edge.
I come sobbing, pleasure crashing through me. My nails rake down his back, and I'm shaking so hard he has to hold me up.
He follows seconds later, groaning my name against my shoulder.
For a long moment, we just stand there under the water, holding each other, both of us breathing hard.
"I can't believe this," I whisper finally.
"What part?" His voice is muffled against my neck.
"All of it."
"Yeah." He pulls back to look at me, and despite everything, he's smiling. "And I can't believe I just proposed. And you said yes."
"I did." I cup his face, marveling at this beautiful, impossible man.
"Five weeks, Mrs. Farrington."
My heart does something complicated in my chest.
Because this is insane. I'm eighteen. And eloping.
This should terrify me. And it does. Because this man—this man who stocks tampons and massages my cramps and doesn't flinch at blood—has ruined me.
I'll never be the same again.