Chapter 17
chapter
seventeen
I'd been sitting on Jimmy's kitchen counter for twenty minutes, and I was pretty sure I'd broken him.
It had started innocently enough — well, mostly innocently. I'd wandered into the kitchen wearing nothing but his t-shirt and my panties, genuinely curious about the sourdough process. But the moment I'd hopped up onto the counter and seen his eyes go wide, something wicked had awakened in me.
For the first time in my adult life, I had a man's complete, undivided attention, and I was enjoying every second of it.
I'd watched him feed his starter with methodical precision, explaining the process like he was teaching a class.
Then he'd pulled out this gorgeous round of dough from the fridge and scored it with quick, confident strokes that made me think about his hands doing other things.
And when he'd slid it into the Dutch oven and set the timer?
That's when I decided to make his waiting time very difficult.
I crossed my legs, letting the hem of his shirt ride up slightly, and watched his eyes track the movement. He was cleaning flour from his hands at the sink, trying to act normal, but I could see the exact moment he lost focus.
"So how long did you say this takes?" I asked innocently, uncrossing my legs and letting them swing slightly apart.
"Uhhh..." Jimmy's voice came out rougher than intended. He cleared his throat, his hands stilling under the running water. "About thirty-five minutes to bake, then it needs to cool for a bit."
I leaned forward, ostensibly interested in the oven, but really giving him a better view down the loose neckline of his shirt. "That's a long time to wait."
His hands gripped the edge of the sink. "Izzy."
"Mmm?" I stretched my arms above my head, arching my back slightly, watching his eyes follow the movement of my body beneath the thin cotton.
"You're doing this on purpose."
"Doing what?" I asked, all innocence, as I recrossed my legs in the opposite direction.
Jimmy dried his hands and stepped closer, his hands settling on my thighs. "Driving me crazy."
"Is it working?" I asked, sliding my hands up his chest.
"You know it is."
I did know. And God, I loved it. This wasn't Derek demanding I dress a certain way, or Marcus critiquing my appearance, or Ryan wanting me to be more "feminine." This was Jimmy, completely undone by the sight of me in his kitchen, wanting me exactly as I was.
"Good," I said, pulling him down for a kiss that tasted like honey and promises.
By the time the bread was done — golden and crackling as Jimmy pulled it from the oven — I was pretty sure we'd both worked up an appetite for more than just food.
But Jimmy outdid himself with the meal: fresh sourdough bread still warm enough that the butter melted into it, perfectly scrambled eggs with herbs from his windowsill garden, and coffee that was somehow better than anything I'd ever had.
"How do you make everything taste so good?" I asked, stealing another bite of his eggs.
"Practice," he said, but he was smiling, pleased by my obvious enjoyment. "And good ingredients. Those eggs are from a farmer's market vendor who actually named all her chickens."
I laughed. "Of course they are. You probably know her life story, too."
"Mary's a retired teacher who started raising chickens because her grandkids were afraid of them. She figured if she could teach seventh graders, she could handle a few hens."
"See? I knew it." I shook my head in amazement. "You collect people's stories."
"Don't you?"
I considered this. "I collect tactical information. Exit strategies. Structural weaknesses." I paused. "But you collect the human parts."
"Maybe that's why we work," he said quietly.
The words hung between us, heavy with possibility. We work. Not worked, past tense, but work — present, ongoing, future.
"Maybe we do," I said, and meant it.
An hour later, we were driving through the city in my truck, Jimmy taking in the neighborhoods I'd grown up in, the places that had shaped me into who I was.
"That's where I went to high school," I said, pulling over to really look at the building. "I used to sit on those steps during lunch, watching the popular kids and wondering what it would be like to fit in anywhere." I paused, surprised by the admission. "I never told anyone that before."
Jimmy was quiet for a moment, then: "Did you want to fit in?"
"I thought I did. But really, I just wanted someone to see me as more than just 'the strong girl' or 'the weird girl who could outrun the boys.' I wanted someone to see me as... me."
Jimmy looked at the building, then at me. "Their loss."
"Easy to say now," I said, turning onto a tree-lined street. "Harder to believe when you're seventeen and the guy you have a crush on tells you that you're 'too much' for him to handle."
"What was his name?"
"Kyle Reynolds. Why?"
"Just want to know who to punch if I ever meet him."
I laughed, surprised by the fierce protectiveness in his voice. "I think I can handle Kyle Reynolds."
"I know you can. Doesn't mean I wouldn't enjoy it."
Something warm unfurled in my chest. Not because I needed him to fight my battles, but because he wanted to. Because in his mind, an insult to me was an insult to him.
"This is where my dad used to take me to practice driving," I said, pulling into an empty parking lot behind a defunct shopping center. "He'd sit in the passenger seat and let me figure out how to parallel park between traffic cones."
"What was he like?"
I put the truck in park and really considered the question.
"Patient. Funny. The kind of guy who would give you his last dollar if you needed it, but would lecture you for an hour about being more careful with money.
" I smiled at the memory. "He used to say that being a firefighter wasn't about being brave — it was about being too stubborn to quit when things got scary. "
"Sounds like where you get it from."
"The stubbornness? Definitely." I pulled back onto the road, heading toward downtown. "What about you? What were your parents like?"
"Good people. My mom's a second-grade teacher who still sends care packages to her former students when they go to college. My dad teaches high school history and coaches JV baseball. They're the kind of people who have never missed a school play or a parent-teacher conference."
"Sounds nice."
"It was. Is." Jimmy paused. "They worry about me, though. Think I'm wasting my potential by 'just' being a nurse."
"That's ridiculous."
"I know. But they come from a generation where success was measured by how far up the ladder you climbed, not by how much good you did on the way."
I turned onto the main drag, where the bars and restaurants were just starting to come alive for the evening. "There's this place I like," I said, nodding toward a dive bar with a neon sign that flickered intermittently. "Best beer selection in the city, and they don't water down their whiskey."
Jimmy looked at the bar, then at me, and I saw something shift in his expression. "Izzy."
"Yeah?"
"I don't really want a drink right now."
The way he said it, low and rough, made heat pool in my stomach. "No?"
"No." His hand found my thigh, fingers tracing small circles through my jeans. "I want to see your place. I want to see where you live, where you sleep, where you feel safe."
I was already making a U-turn, heading back toward my apartment. "Good," I said, pressing down on the accelerator. "Because I want to show you."
My apartment had never felt smaller than it did with Jimmy in it, but not in a bad way. In a way that made me hyperaware of every space, every surface, every possibility.
"It's very you," he said, taking in the clean lines, the functional furniture, the complete absence of clutter.
"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"
"It's perfect." He turned to face me, and I saw something in his eyes that made my pulse quicken. "It's honest. No pretense, no trying to be something you're not."
I stepped closer, backing him toward my bedroom. "Speaking of honest..."
"Yeah?"
"I've been thinking about getting you out of those clothes since we left your place."
His laugh was low and rough. "Have you now?"
"Mmhmm." I pushed him gently onto my bed, climbing up to straddle his hips. "I've been thinking about a lot of things."
"Such as?"
Instead of answering, I pulled my shirt over my head, watching his eyes go dark as he took in the sight of me above him. This was different from the slow, tender exploration at his place. This was hunger, pure and simple.
"Such as this," I said, and leaned down to him deeply, savoring the taste and feel of him beneath me. His hands roamed over my bare skin, igniting sparks wherever they touched. The slow, tantalizing friction between our bodies had me aching for more.
He sat up slightly, lips dragging down my neck, murmuring something incoherent against my skin. I shifted to straddle him more firmly, guiding him with a practiced hand as I lowered myself onto him, inch by delicious inch. He gasped, hands gripping my hips as he filled me completely.
We paused there for a moment, both of us adjusting to the sensation. Then I began to move, slowly at first — rocking my hips in a rhythm that was more teasing than anything else. He met my movements with increasing urgency, his fingers digging into my skin as he whispered my name like a prayer.
The room around us faded into the background. There was only the heat of our bodies, the ragged cadence of our breathing, the wet, needy sound of our connection. Every movement drew a new sound from him, every grind of my hips pushing him closer to the edge.
He broke the kiss, breathless. "God, Izzy — "
"You want me to say it, don't you?" I teased softly, nipping gently at his jawline.
He drew in a shaky breath. "Say … what?"
I rocked my hips against his, watching his eyes flutter closed briefly. "You know exactly what. You want me to say it."
His hands tightened on my hips, almost painfully. "I really don't — "
"Just admit it."
His eyes opened, blazing with intensity. His voice was barely a whisper. "Yes."
I leaned close, my lips brushing his ear, voice dripping honey and heat. "Ayyy, papi."
His reaction was immediate and overwhelming. He gasped sharply, body tensing beneath me, hips bucking involuntarily as he lost control entirely.
"Oh fuck, Izzy!" His voice broke, raw and undone as he shuddered beneath me, grabbing my shoulders with both hands and bringing me down into his chest, squeezing me tightly as he made a noise that was somewhere between a moan and a whimper.
I couldn't hold back my delighted laugh, thrilled by my power over him. "You really like that, don't you?"
He groaned, half-laughing, half-mortified. "You're d-d-dangerous."
I grinned, rolling onto my back, pulling him with me.
I was still catching my breath, satisfied in a way I hadn’t expected.
Honestly, that might’ve been enough. Most guys I’d been with?
That’s where things ended. No expectation, no follow-through.
And I’d gotten used to it. It's just how things worked, right?
Jimmy had other ideas.
He shifted downward, trailing kisses down my body, until he paused, looking up with wicked intent from between my thighs.
I hesitated. "Jimmy, there's … a lot of you still there."
He grinned devilishly, eyes dark. “I don’t care what’s still in you. I've got a job to do here."
I opened my mouth to protest, but then his mouth was on me, skillful and determined, silencing me instantly. My head fell back, pleasure overtaking all coherent thought as he worked me relentlessly, pulling me to the edge with devastating precision.
Then his hands slid beneath me, gripping my ass with firm, possessive strength, using the leverage to pull me harder against his mouth.
“Jimmy — oh God — ” I gasped, overwhelmed by the new pressure, the unrelenting rhythm.
He paused, just for a moment, and looked me directly in the eyes.
“Louder, baby. Let’s make the neighbors jealous.”
It didn't take long — he was thorough and relentless, bringing me crashing over the edge with an intensity that stole my breath, leaving me trembling and completely undone beneath him.
When he finally moved back up beside me, we were both breathing hard, tangled together, sated and sweaty and utterly content.
"Still think I'm dangerous?" I teased breathlessly.
"Jesus," Jimmy said eventually.
"Good Jesus or bad Jesus?"
"Very, very good Jesus." He pulled me closer, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. "I think you might have actually killed me."
"Don't be dramatic," I said, but I was smiling. "You're very much alive."
"Barely."
I propped myself up on my elbow to look at him. His hair was completely disheveled, his lips swollen from kissing, and there were marks on his neck that I'd definitely left there. He looked thoroughly debauched, and I felt a surge of possessive satisfaction.
"You look like you've been thoroughly ravaged," I said.
"I have been." He traced a finger down my spine, making me shiver. "And I loved every second of it."
"Good," I said, settling back against his chest. "Because I'm not done with you yet."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
Outside, the city hummed with its usual nighttime energy, but inside my bedroom, we existed in our own bubble of contentment. For the first time in years, I felt completely satisfied — not just physically, but emotionally. Like I'd found something I didn't even know I was looking for.
Jimmy's breathing was starting to even out, and I could feel him relaxing into sleep. I should have been tired too, but instead I felt energized, alive in a way I hadn't in months.
Maybe this was what happiness felt like. Maybe this was what it was like to be with someone who didn't want to change you, who didn't see your strength as a threat, who could match your intensity without being intimidated by it.
Maybe this was what love felt like.
The thought should have scared me. Instead, it felt like coming home.