Chapter 27
Chapter twenty-seven
Liv
The word is still on my tongue when he pulls me closer.
More. It slipped out before I could stop it, before I could remind myself that wanting him is dangerous.
But I can’t take it back now, and the truth is—I don’t want to.
My baser instincts are alive right now and filled with him, and I let myself believe that I can have him.
The paint is drying tacky on my skin, pulling every time I shift against him, but it only makes me more aware of every inch of me that he’s touched. My heart’s a wild thing, beating too fast, too hard, like it’s trying to break free from my chest and press itself into his.
I didn’t expect to feel this undone. Not by the one who’s been my anchor since I showed up here with nothing but a suitcase and a thousand cracks I tried to hide.
But the second his mouth touched mine, all those cracks lit up like fault lines, and now I don’t know if I want him to piece me back together or break me all the way open.
It’s all too much and not enough at the same time. I want to be the girl who doesn’t care about consequences, who doesn’t second-guess the way his hands fit against my skin. Who deserves to feel again.
I tilt my chin, just enough to meet his gaze. There’s still his trademark kindness there, but also hunger, and it’s the combination that unravels me completely.
He doesn’t make me feel like chaos. I feel seen. Wanted. Chosen.
His camera is still hanging against his chest, the strap brushing my arm, the faint smell of paint between us. As if he notices, he lifts it from his head and sets it aside.
“Jay,” I whisper, and my voice shakes, but not from fear. From the terrifying realization that if he keeps looking at me like that, I’ll never be able to go back to the way things were.
The second kiss is fiercer. I don’t even remember moving, only that one moment my feet are planted on the floor and the next I’m pressed against him, my hands clutching at his shirt like I’ll drown if I let go. The brush slips from my fingers and clatters to the ground, forgotten.
Jay tastes like heat and salt and just him, and maybe that’s why I can’t get enough. Every time his mouth leaves mine, I chase it back, greedy, reckless.
His hand slides into my hair, tugging gently, tilting my face so he can kiss me deeper, our tongues exploring and taking from one another. My whole body is buzzing, wired on the fact that he wants me like this, messy and undone, covered in streaks of blue. When he lets me go, I can hardly breathe.
“More,” I repeat because the truth is, he’s reduced me to one syllable.
The word has barely left my lips before his hand tightens in my hair, tilting my head back just enough that I moan. The sound seems to please him, because his eyes darken and his mouth curves in the faintest smile.
Jay is gentle, always has been, but there’s nothing tentative in the way he holds me now. His thumb traces my jaw, while his other hand slides down to my hip, squeezing just hard enough to remind me who’s in control. It’s not rough, but it leaves no room for doubt.
“You have no idea what you do to me, Liv.” His voice is low, threaded with barely there restraint. “But if you want more, you’re going to let me lead. Let me show you everything.”
The command in his tone makes my stomach clench, heat flooding lower until my breath comes fast and uneven. I nod before I even think to answer.
“Words,” he says confidently. “I need to hear them.”
“Yes,” I breathe, and it sounds more desperate than I intend. “I’ll let you.”
His lips crush mine in response, a kiss that steals every ounce of hesitation I had left. He guides me backward until my legs hit the edge of the bench beneath the windows, and he eases me down, standing over me like I belong exactly where he’s put me.
The brushstrokes of blue across my skin have mostly dried, but his fingers smear them anyway as he drags them along my shoulder, my collarbone, the swell just above my sports bra. I shiver under every touch, every mark he makes, the flakes falling away from me fluttering between us.
My body instinctively wants to writhe and search for something that’ll satisfy this ache he’s awakened in me.
“Don’t move,” he says darkly, his light-blue eyes fixed on mine like I’m his masterpiece.
My body still screams for friction, but I do as he says, staying perfectly still while his thumb tugs the strap of my bra down my shoulder. His lips follow, hot against the skin around the paint, and the contrast makes me gasp and moan.
His mouth presses firmer, his teeth grazing my collarbone just enough to make me twitch.
His hands and mouth are everywhere I want them, but nowhere I need them desperately. Pinning me, guiding me, unhurried but relentlessly gentle. He pushes the other strap down, baring me inch by inch, exposed under the weight of his stare.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, brushing his knuckles over my stomach as if testing how far he can take me. “Is it because you want me?”
I nod, breathless. “Yes.”
His mouth curves, not into a smile but into something deeper, heavier. “Then don’t rush me.” His voice is deep and raspy with the tone that makes me feel more than if he’d barked an order.
Jay moves with unshakable patience, like he has all the time in the world to unwrap me.
He peels my sports bra lower down, slow enough that the fabric drags against my skin, a teasing scrape that makes my nipples pebble before he even touches me.
His thumb grazes one, testing, and the sound that leaves me is embarrassingly desperate.
“You’re doing so fucking good,” he murmurs. “I want every sound, Liv. Don’t hold back.”
A shaky breath slips out of me, answering his demand.
His gaze sharpens as his hand slides lower, brushing my stomach, tracing idle circles just beneath the band of my leggings.
The anticipation is torture, but I don’t dare move—not when his eyes are on me like that, warm and commanding all at once.
He hooks his fingers under the waistband, pausing, waiting. I push my hips up in silent permission. Only then does he ease the fabric down, exposing me inch by inch, until the cool air hits my damp skin, and I shiver.
“Perfect,” he says, staring at my pink panties, which I know will be soaked with my desire. “Exactly how I wanted you.”
He kneels between my thighs, pressing them wider with the firm weight of his hands.
There’s nothing rushed in the way he touches me now, no frantic clawing, no fumbling.
Just measured caresses that make my skin prickle and build heat until I’m shaking.
Every brush of his fingers is purposeful, like he’s mapping me, committing every reaction to memory.
I grip the edge of the bench, knuckles white, biting back the plea clawing its way up my throat. He notices anyway, his eyes flicking to mine, dark and certain.
“Don’t you dare look away,” he rasps. “Keep looking at me. I want you to see the way you come alive in my hands.”
The command roots me to the spot, my chest heaving, and he’s right… my entire body comes alive under the careful mercy of his hands.
He starts at the edge of my panties, dragging one fingertip along the damp cotton, slow enough that I jolt. The fabric is already clinging to me, giving away exactly how badly I want this. His mouth curves like he’s proud of it. “Oh my god,” I hiss.
Fire rushes through me, embarrassment and arousal tangled together, but before I can answer, he presses his thumb over the fabric, right where I’m throbbing. The pressure is steady, maddeningly gentle. My hips lift instinctively, searching for more.
“Easy,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
His gentle but firm care speaks to me in a way I’ve never experienced before.
He pushes the fabric aside, exposing me completely, and the cool air makes me gasp. Then his fingers are on me, skin to skin, stroking through my slickness with slow, deliberate care. It feels like he’s cataloguing me, learning which touch makes me twitch, which makes my breath stutter.
The first time his thumb circles my clit, my entire body jerks. I choke on a sound, half-groan, half-whimper, and his eyes flash with satisfaction.
Two fingers slide lower, teasing at my entrance, dipping just inside before retreating. My nails bite into the wood of the bench. “Jay—please.”
He leans closer, his lips brushing my knee as his fingers finally press deeper, stretching me slowly and carefully until I can’t breathe. My head tips back on instinct. I’m so, so close already, a temple built of sand ready to fall, and when his voice is right there…
“Let go for me, gatinha. Quero que gozes nos meus dedos.” I want you to come on my fingers.
I combust.