Chapter 32
Chapter thirty-two
Abigail
Jasper’s got his back to me when I slip inside and relock the door.
His shoulders are hunched, hands braced against the sink like the world might tilt on its axis if he lets go.
His reflection stares back at him from the mirror—jaw tight, eyes dark and glassy, chest rising and falling like he’s still mid-fight.
He doesn’t turn toward me, so I continue taking him in.
The scrape on his knuckles. The blood spattered on his jacket. The way his whole body is wound so tight, it’s like one wrong breath could shatter him.
“Are you okay?” I ask softly, though I know the answer.
He lets out a sharp laugh that holds no humor. “No, Abigail. I’m not okay.”
The question was stupid, but it gets him to lift his head and look at me through the mirror.
His eyes meet mine, and whatever’s in them—anger, fear, shame—hits me square in the chest. This isn’t the Jasper who smirks and flirts and pretends nothing can touch him.
This is the man underneath. The one who’s been carrying ghosts for years.
“I didn’t want you to see me like that,” he says.
His voice is rough, like it scraped its way out of his throat.
“I didn’t want you hearing any of it. But he just—what he said—I—”
His jaw clenches. He looks away again, like he can’t stand to see whatever he thinks might be reflected back at him. “I just lost it. I felt it happen, but I couldn’t stop it.”
I step closer. Slowly. Carefully. Not because I’m afraid, but because I know he is. “Jasper,” I say as gently as possible, and the sound of his name makes his shoulders tense. “Look at me.”
He doesn’t.
So I reach out. My hand settles on his forearm first. It’s solid.
Warm. Grounding. His muscles jump under my touch, but he doesn’t pull away.
“I’ve seen men like them. The kind who hurt because they like it.
Because they feel entitled to it." He swallows hard. “And I’ve seen you, too, Jasper. You’re not them. You’re not anything like them.”
That finally does it.
He turns fully, eyes shining now, not with rage, but with something dangerously close to breaking. “After everything you’ve been through,” he says hoarsely. “After everything that’s been done to you… How can you even look at me after what you just saw? What you heard?”
My chest tightens.
“I… I don’t want you to be afraid of me,” he continues, voice cracking. “But I’d understand if you were.”
I lift my hands before he can retreat again, and I cup his face. His skin is warm under my palms, stubble rough against my thumbs as they brush against his cheeks. His eyes flutter shut, like the contact alone is too much.
“You’re nothing like them,” I repeat.
His breath stutters.
“Their anger is selfish,” I explain. “It takes. It consumes. It destroys things. Breaks them until there are no pieces to put back together.” I brush my thumb gently under his eye.
“Yours is protective. It’s a pain that never healed.
It’s love twisted up with fear. It’s you trying to put the people you love back together. ”
His eyes open, searching my face like he’s desperate for confirmation.
“You didn’t scare me,” I tell him. “You made me feel safe.”
Silence stretches between us, thick, heavy, and electric.
The air feels charged now. It’s different. Warmer.
His hands hover at my waist, not touching, like he’s giving me every chance to pull away.
I don’t.
Instead, I step in until my body fits against his, until I can feel his heartbeat racing through his chest. His breath ghosts over my cheek, and the intensity of his gaze shifts—still dark, still shaken—now threaded with something hot and aching. Something unmistakable.
Lust.
It’s raw and unfiltered. Held back by nothing but sheer will.
“I don’t want to do this in the bathroom at a bar, Abigail,” he whispers, like it’s costing him something to say the words out loud.
Swallowing, I lean in, my mouth close enough that he can feel my words more than hear them. “I don’t care anymore, Jasper. Just do it.”
The silence after that says everything words never could.
And this time… this time my lips finally touch his.
His mouth crashes into mine like he’s been holding himself back for years instead of minutes. There’s no hesitation this time. No carefulness. Just raw need and shaking restraint.
Jasper’s hands slide into my hair, fingers gripping like he’s afraid the second he relaxes, this will all end. The kiss is bruising. Desperate. And I kiss him back just as hard. Just as reckless.
He growls low in his chest, the sound vibrating straight through me, and then suddenly my feet aren’t on the floor anymore as he lifts me like I weigh nothing. But I know the muscles that hide beneath his clothes, I’ve seen firsthand what he can do with them.
I gasp against his mouth as my legs wrap around his waist on instinct, my body reacting before my brain can catch up.
His hands lock under my thighs, holding me there, keeping me close, right where I belong.
He carries me the few short steps to the door and presses me back against it, the solid wood thudding softly behind me.
The bar noise fades. All the deep voices.
The music. And so does everything else. Lawson.
Last night. The worry about what the four of them will think of me.
All of it disappears beneath the way Jasper is kissing me, like I’m oxygen and he’s been drowning.
All I know is Jasper. His heat. His strength.
The way his hands tremble just slightly where they hold me, betraying how close he is to losing control.
And there isn’t a single part of me that wants him to stop.
Not now.
Not ever.
His forehead rests against mine for half a second, breath ragged, chest heaving.
I can feel how badly he’s holding himself back—how much fear and want are tangled up inside him—and it only pulls me closer.
My hands slide up his neck, thumbs brushing his jaw, grounding him in the way I was hoping to when I walked in here.
He kisses me again, slower this time, but no less intense. I melt between him and the door as he memorizes the shape of my mouth. And when he wraps his hand around the side of my throat, thumb brushing beneath my jaw, my fingers tug at the hair along the nape of his neck.
“Fuck, Red,” he groans.
“I’ve always hated when people called me that,” I whisper breathlessly against his lips. “But something about the way you say it… it’s just—”
“Sexy, right?” he interrupts, cocky grin now covering his face. “What can I say, Abbie Girl, I practically ooze raw sex appeal.”
I can’t help it. I tip my head back and laugh at his ridiculousness, my insides warming now that he has a smile on his face. “Hey, Jas?”
“Yeah, Red?”
“Shut up and fuck me already?”
“Hmmmm, that’s twice today I’ve gotten to hear that feisty little mouth of yours. I’m a big fan.”
“Good.” I place a quick but eager kiss on his lips as he still holds me against the door. “Then put it to good use already.”
“We don’t have time to do this the way I want to, Abigail.” His words say one thing, but his body’s telling an entirely different story—both in the hardness I feel pressing against me and the way one of his hands impatiently pulls down the zipper of my jacket.
Wanting him to hear me when I say what I’m about to say, I grab his jaw in my hand, the scruff of his beard tickling my palm. “I don’t care, Jasper. I’m not going to break. You guys don’t need to be so gentle with me. I’m not made of glass.”
He huffs a laugh and shakes his head. “No. No, you sure are not.”
“So I’m going to say this one more time. Fuck. Me. Jasper.”
A wild smile blooms across his face. “Yes, ma’am.” He kisses me quickly on the lips. “Better hold on, Abbie Girl.”
A split second later, my feet are back on the ground, Jasper’s and my jacket are being tossed on the sink, and I’m being walked backward until my ass hits the ledge of the countertop. “Quick or not, you’re going to let me see this body. Arms up.”
I don’t hesitate as I raise my arms over my head. A shiver rolls through my body as Jasper’s knuckles drag against my torso as he lifts my sweater and long-sleeved shirt over my head before tossing them on top of our jackets, careful not to let anything fall on the floor.
“Jasper,” I moan as his mouth quickly works its way down my neck and over my chest, tickling the already sensitive skin from where Lawson had his face last night.
“So fucking soft,” he murmurs before his hands reach around my back. “Can I take this off?”
“Yes,” I answer breathlessly.
In one swift move, Jasper unhooks my bra and slides it down my arms. He steps back for a moment to admire me. We must look so ridiculous, me in only jeans and boots, with Jasper still dressed head to toe. “At least give me something to look at?”
“My handsome face not enough for you, Red?” he asks before palming his cock through his jeans.
“Nah, I don’t think so.”
He tips his head back in laughter. “As you wish.”
I snort. “Ha. Okay, Westley.”
He stills as he slides his flannel down his arms. “Fuck yes. Princess Bride. Great fucking movie.”
“Jasper…” I groan.
“Right. Quick,” he replies, resuming his undress.
I watch with rapt attention as his jacket and flannel join our pile of clothes on the counter.
For one more split second, I let myself admire him.
The small silver chain that dusts his collar bones, the light dusting of black hair that covers his chest, and the small trail that runs from his naval to below his jeans, the ridges of muscle that cover his torso—ones that are built from years of hard work and training—and the intricate ink that covers his right arm. He’s—
“Better?”
“Perfect,” I reply. “Now get over here.”
“As you wish.”
“Shut up,” I laugh, grabbing his belt and slamming his body against mine.