Chapter 28
Chapter twenty-eight
Jay
Her cry of pleasure hits me like a punch to the chest. The sound of her giving me everything I asked for, and fuck, it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.
She clenches around my fingers, tight and desperate, pulsing in time with each shudder that wracks her body. I keep the pressure steady, drawing it out, coaxing every last wave until she’s trembling and gasping, her nails carving half-moons into the bench.
“Muito bem,” I murmur, brushing my lips against her thigh as I ease my hand back, my voice rough with pride. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”
Her legs tremble against my shoulders, but I hold her steady, hands anchored at her hips. I don’t let her drift too far from me, not when she’s given me this. Not when I know I’ll never forget the way she looked in this moment—bare, painted, alive.
She slumps back against the bench, still trembling, her skin streaked with blue paint and sweat, her chest rising and falling in uneven pulls.
And god, I’ve never seen anything like her.
Messy, undone, trusting me to hold her through it.
The sight of her like this should undo me completely, and in a way, it does.
My cock is straining against my jeans, my body screaming to take her further, to bury myself inside her until neither of us can think straight.
But not tonight. Tonight, what she needs is gentleness.
I press one last kiss to the inside of her knee before helping her sit up, my hands steady at her waist. “Come on, gatinha,” I say softly. “Let’s get you home.”
Her lips curve, faint but teasing. “You keep calling me that. Am I supposed to know what it means?”
I grin despite the ache in my chest. “It means kitten.”
She laughs weakly, shaking her head, still breathless. “I like it when you say it.”
That admission makes my entire being vibrate. My body wants to take her again right here, but I steady myself, pulling her gently to her feet. “Good,” I murmur, tucking her against my side. “Because I’m not stopping anytime soon. I think it’s perfect for you.”
“It’s Portuguese?”
“It is.”
“I haven’t asked much about your family, but I’d like to know more, if you want to share.”
My smile is genuine. “I’d like that, another night, though,” I promise and stretch out my hand for her to take.
When hers wraps around mine, that spark shoots up my arm and into my chest. It’s at this moment that I realize as small part of me has been bracing for her to retreat, to decide this was too much, too fast. Instead, she’s here, touching me with something as simple as her hand in mine.
And it feels good.
The drive home is quiet, too, and I don’t push her for words. She’s given me more than enough tonight.
When we reach the apartment, I settle her on the couch and head for the kitchen. The ache between my legs is nearly unbearable, but I shove it down, focusing instead on the simple ritual of clinking ice into a glass, filling it with the decaf tea I know she loves.
“Here,” I say, pressing it into her hands. She drinks slowly, eyes fluttering shut as if even this is a comfort. I watch her, chest full, wondering if she knows how easy it is to choose her, again and again.
When she finishes her tea, I set the glass aside and glance at her skin. Streaks of blue still cross her chest and shoulders, smudges trailing where my fingers held her steady. It’s messy, cracked in places. She looks down at herself, then back at me.
“Come on,” I say gently, offering my hand. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
In the bathroom, I run a warm washcloth under the tap, wring it out, and kneel in front of her where she sits on the edge of the tub.
She doesn’t speak at first, just watches me as I start with her collarbone, carefully wiping away the paint in slow strokes.
The color fades, leaving bare skin behind, and I take my time, not rushing a single patch.
When I reach her shoulder, her voice comes out small. “Do you still think I’m beautiful?”
The question guts me. She says it like she’s bracing for me to disagree, like the paint was the thing that made her worth looking at. I still my hand and tilt my chin so she has no choice but to meet my eyes.
“Liv,” I say on an exhale, “you could be covered in paint, sweat, tears—it doesn’t matter. You’re beautiful because you’re you. Nothing changes that.”
Her eyes shine, uncertain, and I press a kiss to the newly cleaned skin at her shoulder. “You don’t need the paint for me to see you, Liv,” I murmur. “I already do.”
I keep wiping her clean, tender and gentle, until every streak of paint is gone and all that’s left is her.
“Will you…” She hesitates and can’t make eye contact, so I grasp her chin and guide her back to me.
“Will I what?”
“Will you sleep with me tonight?”
The request reverberates all the way down to my bones. Not an invitation to take more, not even about sex, it’s the need for presence.
“Yeah,” I murmur, brushing my thumb over her jaw. “I’ll sleep with you.”
Her shoulders loosen, the tiniest shift, and I know she needed to hear it said out loud. I rinse the cloth, wring it dry, and we both brush our teeth, shoulders knocking.
When we leave the bathroom, Nick Fury is curled in his bed, already snoozing, so I lace my fingers through hers and don’t let go, not even while I’m kicking my shoes off by the door.
I pull her to me, pressing a gentle kiss to her mouth, letting our lips stay connected on a deep inhale.
Then I strip down to my underwear, and she watches every movement.
I know she can probably see my cock through my tight-fitting boxers, but I laugh when her eyes don’t shift away.
“Just ignore it, it’ll go down.”
She bursts into a short cackle as she undresses, too. “Just what every girl wants to hear when a boy is about to get into bed with them.”
I pull the covers back and gesture for her to climb in next to me. She does, curling on her side, watching me with heavy-lidded eyes as if waiting to see if I’ll keep my word. Instead of sliding in behind her, I stretch out on my back, close enough that our arms touch from shoulder to wrist.
The silence feels different here. She shifts, inching closer until her head rests against my chest, hair still carrying the faint tang of paint and my soap from the cloth. My heart stutters at the weight of her there, the trust threaded into something so simple.
“Jay?”
“Hm?”
“Will you hold me?”
Of all the things she could’ve asked for tonight, she just wants my arms around her.
“Yeah,” I murmur, slipping my arm beneath her shoulders and pulling her closer until she’s tucked fully against me.
She exhales like she’s been holding that request in all night, like asking for comfort was somehow harder than letting me strip her bare.
Her body molds to mine, soft where I’m tense, and I know she can feel how wired I still am, how badly I want her.
“He’s insistent, hm?” she mumbles.
“He has to deal.”
I focus on the details to keep from drowning in how much I want her—her steady breaths, the way her hand curls in the fabric of the sheets, the warmth of her thigh brushing mine. It’s nothing like the frantic want from earlier, but it’s just as consuming.
“You’re warm,” she mumbles, already half-asleep.
I lay there, every ache and want muted by the quiet of her sleep-tugged breathing, and let the small acts of staying be enough: the warmth of my body at her back, my thumb rubbing the pad of her hand, the steadying pressure of my arm across her ribs.
And I fall asleep.