Chapter 8
Jake
I wake slowly, drifting up from sleep like surfacing from deep water.
The first thing I notice is warmth. The second is weight. Soft and familiar, pressed against my side. Madison has migrated again in her sleep, her body wrapped around mine like I'm her personal pillow. Her head rests on my chest, one arm draped across my stomach, one leg thrown over my thigh.
I don't move. Don't want to disturb her. Just lie there in the gray morning light, watching her sleep.
She's beautiful like this. Unguarded. Her lips are slightly parted, her breathing slow and even. Dark lashes fan against her cheeks.
I could watch her for hours.
The thought should alarm me, but it just settles into my chest like it belongs there.
A week ago, I would’ve called this a complication. A woman in my bed. Soft. Attached. Like she expects something from me.
Now all I can think is how quiet this house is going to feel without her in it. How empty this side of the bed will be tomorrow night.
The idea lands heavy. The house is going to feel too quiet tomorrow.
My free hand finds her leg, the one draped over my thigh, and I stroke it absently. Slow, gentle passes from her knee to her hip and back again. Her skin is impossibly soft under my palm, warm from sleep.
She moans.
The sound goes straight through me. Her thigh shifts higher, and suddenly her center is pressed directly against my erection.
I suck in a breath. She's still asleep, but her body knows exactly what it's doing. Her hips rock slightly, an unconscious movement that sends sparks shooting down my spine.
I should wake her. Should put some distance between us before this goes somewhere we can't come back from.
I should ask her to stay, say something real before I touch her like this.
But if this is the last morning I get with her in my bed, I’m not wasting it pretending I don’t feel what I feel. Instead, I do the opposite.
One smooth motion and I'm over her, bracing my weight on my forearms, looking down at her sleep-soft face. Her eyes flutter but don't open. A small frown creases her brow.
"Jake?"
"Shh." I lower my mouth to her neck, pressing a soft kiss to the curve where it meets her shoulder. "This is a dream. Don't wake up."
She hums. A sleepy, contented sound, and tilts her head to give me better access. I take full advantage, trailing kisses along her throat, behind her ear, across her jaw.
"Good dream," she murmurs.
"The best."
I kiss down her body slowly. Her collarbone. The swell of her breast through her thin sleep shirt. The soft plane of her stomach. She shifts beneath me, making small sounds of pleasure, still hovering in that hazy space between sleeping and waking.
When I reach the waistband of her flannel pants, I hook my fingers in the fabric and slide them down. Slowly. Savoring every inch of skin I reveal.
She's not wearing panties.
The discovery hits me like a punch to the gut. She's bare underneath, already glistening in the pale morning light, and I have to close my eyes for a moment just to breathe.
"Madison," I rasp. "You're going to kill me."
"Mmm." She stretches lazily, her back arching off the mattress. "Still dreaming."
I take my time with her. Use my hands first. Stroking, teasing, learning every sensitive spot and curve of her. She's hot and wet and so responsive that every touch draws a new sound from her lips. I slide one finger inside her, then two, curling them just right, and she gasps.
"Jake—"
"Shh. Still dreaming, remember?"
I work her slowly, building her up with deliberate patience. My thumb finds her clit, circling it in lazy patterns while my fingers move inside her. She's writhing now, fully awake, her hands fisting in the sheets.
Then I move lower.
I lift her thighs over my shoulders, settling between her legs, and press my mouth to her center.
She cries out, loud and uninhibited, and her hands fly to my hair. I lick into her slowly at first, savoring the taste of her, then faster as her hips start to move. She's pulling my hair, grinding against my face, making sounds that are going to live in my memory forever.
"Don't stop," she gasps. "Please don't stop—"
I don't stop. I work her with my tongue, with my lips, with everything I have, until she shatters against my mouth. Her whole body shakes with the force of it, her thighs clamping around my head, her voice breaking on my name.
I ease her through the aftershocks, gentling my touch as she comes back down. When I finally lift my head, she's staring at the ceiling with glazed eyes, her chest heaving.
"Good morning," I say.
She laughs—a breathless, incredulous sound—and then she's pushing me onto my back.
"Your turn."
Before I can respond, she's sliding down my body, tugging at my boxer briefs with determined hands. I lift my hips to help her, and then her fingers wrap around me and I stop thinking entirely.
"Madison—"
"Shh." She throws my words back at me with a wicked smile. "Still dreaming."
Then her mouth closes over me, and I groan.
She takes her time. Explores me with her lips, her tongue, her hands. Learns what makes me gasp, what makes me moan, what makes my hips jerk off the mattress. I wrap my hands in her hair. Not guiding, just holding on, and try to remember how to breathe.
"God, Madison." My voice comes out rough, wrecked. "It's never—I've never—"
She hums around me, and my eyes roll back.
"So good," I manage. "Nothing has ever felt this good."
She picks up the pace, her head bobbing, her hand working the base of me in perfect rhythm. I'm losing control. I can feel myself hurtling toward the edge with no way to stop.
"I'm close," I warn her. "Madison, I'm—"
She doesn't pull away. Takes me deeper instead, and that's it. I'm gone. The orgasm tears through me like a wildfire, my whole body shuddering, her name on my lips like a prayer.
When I finally come back to myself, she's climbing up my body with a satisfied smile. I pull her against my chest, tucking her head under my chin, and we lie there in the aftermath.
My hand finds her back. Starts rubbing slow circles over her spine, up between her shoulder blades, down to the curve of her waist and back again. Her fingers trace lazy patterns on my chest, following the lines of muscle.
We don't speak. Don't need to.
I stare at the ceiling and let myself feel it all. The warmth of her body against mine. The softness of her skin under my palm. The steady rhythm of her breathing.
And underneath it all, the growing certainty that I'm not ready to let her go.
But that's exactly what I have to do.
I take a deep breath and make myself face reality. She has a life. A business. A whole schedule of stops mapped out. She has dreams she's been chasing. Dreams her mother tried to squash, dreams her ex-boyfriend wanted to clip like wings.
I'm not going to be another person who holds her back.
I'm not going to be the reason she gives up on what she wants.
So when the silence stretches too long and I feel her start to stir, I press a kiss to the top of her head and say the words I don't want to say.
"We should get you packed."
*****
An hour later, we're loading the last of her bags into my truck.
The morning is crisp and clear, the sky a brilliant blue that feels almost offensive after days of gray. The roads are passable now. The plows have been through, and the sun is making quick work of what's left.
No more excuses to stay.
Madison climbs into the passenger seat, her jaw set in a way that tells me she's feeling this as much as I am. I start the engine and pull out of the driveway, and neither of us speaks for the first ten minutes.
"Thank you," she says finally. "For everything. The rescue. The shelter. The..."
"The Scrabble?" I offer, keeping my eyes on the road.
She laughs softly. "Sure. The Scrabble."
We drive the rest of the way in silence. When I turn onto the street where her food truck has been waiting out the storm, I'm already bracing myself for the worst. Three days of heavy snow, subzero temperatures, and brutal winds—there's no telling what kind of damage she'll find.
But when we round the corner, the truck is there. Intact. Buried under a mountain of snow, but miraculously undamaged.
"Oh thank God." Madison is out of my truck before I've even stopped, wading through the drifts to reach her mobile kitchen. She circles it twice, checking every panel, every hinge, every window.
"It's okay," she breathes. "It's actually okay."
I grab shovels from my truck bed and we get to work. It takes us an hour to dig the food truck out, and by the end we're both sweating despite the cold. But finally, she climbs into the driver's seat and turns the key.
The engine catches on the first try.
Madison laughs, genuine joy lighting up her face, and something in my chest twists painfully.
"She lives!" She pats the dashboard affectionately. "Tough old girl."
"Takes more than a blizzard to keep a good truck down."
She climbs out and walks over to where I'm standing by my truck. We face each other in the street, snow crunching under our boots, breath fogging in the air between us.
This is it. The goodbye we've been avoiding.
She extends her hand. "Thank you. Really."
I take it. Her fingers are cold, her grip firm. Professional. Like we're business associates parting ways after a successful meeting.
"Drive safe," I say. "Watch for black ice."
"I will."
"And don't get stranded in any more small towns."
"No promises. Apparently my truck has a type."
We're still holding hands. Neither of us seems to want to let go.
Finally, she pulls away. Turns toward her truck. Takes three steps before pausing.
"Jake?"
"Yeah?"
She doesn't turn around. Just stands there, her shoulders tight, her head slightly bowed.
"I'm glad I got stranded here," she says quietly. "Just so you know."
Then she's walking again, climbing into her truck, starting the engine. I watch her pull out of the parking spot and head down the road, her taillights disappearing around the corner.