Chapter 19 The Cyclone #3
She had thought, before, about how hanging out with Jack made her insides relax.
It turned out that kissing Jack conferred that same sensation, though perhaps relax was not the right word.
She felt… anchored. Like she could focus.
Like he was picking up all the scattered pieces of her and putting them back together.
And she was focusing, on the feeling of his mouth working hers, of his stubble raking her cheek.
On the sound of his breathing, and hers.
Her body was a string of Christmas lights coming to life one bulb at a time—pop, pop, pop.
She felt him everywhere. Not just her mouth, but the back of her neck, where he’d clamped a hand.
She felt him in places he wasn’t touching her, in the achy tips of her breasts and the heartbeat between her legs.
It had been so long since she had come to life like this.
She was already standing on her toes, but she reached higher, moved closer. She wanted more contact. She wanted every part of her to touch every part of him.
He slid his hands up under her dress, and when they made contact with her bare thighs, she gasped.
He groaned and pressed her back against the door so he was holding her body up with his.
She wrapped her legs around his waist. She was shameless, but it felt good to be shameless, to be uninhibited. Unafraid for one God damn second.
“Fuck,” he muttered when his hips made contact with her center.
She squeezed her legs more tightly around him, and he nuzzled her neck.
He brought electricity with him, little zings traveling from her neck to between her legs.
Between her legs, where she wanted—needed—more pressure.
She arched her back and tilted her hips, nudging herself against his hand that was holding her thigh.
He got the message and lowered her back to the floor and slid his hand around so the base of his palm was pressing against her.
She had no shame whatsoever—it was still good to be shameless—in grinding herself against it.
He was grinding against her, too, against her outer thigh, where he’d ended up during their reshuffling.
“Blair,” he muttered against her neck, and just the sound of his saying her name made her buck her hips, which, in turn, made him groan and thrust against her thigh. He was hard, and it was a thrill.
“Blair,” he said again, and it triggered the same domino effect: she bucked her hips against the heel of his palm; he groaned and thrust against her thigh.
The third time he said her name, she understood that he was doing it on purpose.
He had cottoned on to the fact that something about his gruff, raspy voice saying her name was nudging her closer to the edge.
Or maybe not: maybe he was just acting in his own selfish interests.
Because he was as into this as she was, and—“Oh. Oh my God.”
The shaking started in her legs. Or maybe her arms. It felt like it was starting everywhere and ending everywhere, directionless and all-consuming.
She wasn’t sure how long it lasted, was only vaguely aware, as she hurtled off the cliff, of him giving a final, louder-than-before groan as his hips stuttered.
She didn’t want to come back to earth. And not for the usual reasons people who’ve just had mind-blowing orgasms didn’t want to come back to earth, because they wanted to prolong the bliss or luxuriate in the embrace of their partner or whatever.
She didn’t want to come back to earth because on earth she had to face the fact that she’d just shattered in the arms of a man who had, not minutes ago, said the most outrageous things to her.
The most true things.
Things she was afraid she could not unhear.
He took a step back, and the world intruded, as it always did, with its broken glass and its disorder. The well of pleasure inside her emptied out and made way for… what? What was next?
As if he’d heard her question, he stepped back again. Way back. “I’m sorry. That should not have happened.”
What? “Why not?”
“You’re not in any state to be doing…” He waved his hand vaguely. “You’re vulnerable right now.”
What, like he thought she was some tender flower he’d taken advantage of? Or, worse, like he was magnanimously bequeathing pleasure on her but was above wanting any for himself?
She could feel the anger she’d been striving toward so ardently. It was within reach now. It was a tired sort of anger, though, a kind of shadow-anger. Well, it was all she had.
“Jack,” she said quietly, “fuck off.”
“That’s it?” he asked.
“Fuck off and write your book,” she said. “Is that better?”
At first she thought there was going to have to be more talking, as he stood and stared at her for several excruciatingly long moments. But then he headed toward the kitchen. She heard him unlock the sliding door.
But then he was back, damn him. He appeared in the kitchen, behind the island where he had played bartender so many times before. “Can I say one more thing?”
“Can I stop you?”
“You say your main goal in life is to get Green Light made. So get it made.”
She didn’t answer. She didn’t know how to.
He disappeared. Finally.
But no. There he was, back again. Would this man ever leave? “One more thing.”
“You already said your one more thing.”
“I’m here if you need me, Blair.”