Chapter 6
I want it on record that I try extremely hard for my date with Mason.
I spend an hour getting ready, which is approximately fifty-five minutes longer than I usually spend on my appearance since the accident. I dig out a fitted burgundy shirt from an upcoming New Zealand designer that I purchased when I had my old staff discount.
I even attempt to style my hair in a way that artfully covers the worst of my scars while still looking effortlessly tousled, which takes approximately forty-seven attempts and half a bottle of product.
Mason has suggested meeting at this gastropub in Mt Eden.
It’s the kind of place that serves deconstructed shepherd’s pie and charges forty dollars for it.
He pulls out my chair, compliments my shirt, and makes conversation about neutral topics like the latest season of that crime documentary everyone’s watching.
His voice is pleasant enough, but it’s not chocolate cake.
It’s more like…store-bought vanilla frosting.
And when we go up to pay the bill, he does this smooth move with his card that makes it clear he’s paying without making it weird or patronizing.
Melissa didn’t oversell him. He is a genuinely nice guy.
But that indefinable spark, that pull toward someone that makes you forget your own name when they smile, is definitely missing.
And somehow, the date just leaves me craving Jared. Craving his chocolate-cake voice, his warm smile, the simple miracle of being near someone who already knows all my damage and still chooses to spend time with me.
So when I get home, once I’ve comforted Patches, who acts like I abandoned her for three years in the Siberian wilderness, I can’t help staring at my phone. I type out a message to Jared, then delete it. Type another. Delete. Finally, I just send:
Are you still awake?
The dots appear immediately, almost like he was waiting.
Yeah, I’m still awake.
Want some company?
Sure.
I’m still dressed in my date outfit because I figure it can’t hurt for Jared to see me like this, right?
And I’m rewarded when he answers the door and his gaze flickers down my body, catching on the way my shirt clings to my chest, before he forcibly drags his eyes back up to my face like they’re being pulled by a winch.
The look leaves me a little breathless, to be honest.
“Hey,” he says, his voice rougher than usual, taking a step back to let me in.
“Hey.” I head straight for his couch.
“How was your date?” he asks.
My heart does a flip as my brain overinterprets the tightness in his voice as he says those words.
Has he worked out the implications of one of us being in a relationship? That we wouldn’t spend as much time hanging out together? Surely he values our friendship as much as I do. Otherwise, he wouldn’t react like this, right?
It’s possible I’m extracting too much meaning from four words.
“Well, I’m home by nine p.m., by myself, so that should tell you everything you need to know about my date.” I flop down on the couch. “What are we watching?”
Jared comes and sits next to me. But instead of settling into his usual corner, he sits closer than normal. Close enough that I can smell his body wash, something clean and crisp that makes me want to lean in.
He doesn’t reach for the remote to start the show. Instead, he turns to face me.
“Did he treat you okay?” He’s studying me like my answer really matters to him.
I shrug. “He was okay. Nice guy. But I could tell he’s not really into the whole Frankenstein vibe I’ve got going on.”
Jared goes completely still. “Did he say that to you?” His voice is tight.
“No. Of course not. That would make him the monster. No, his gaze just kept on flicking to my scars like they were a piece of spinach stuck in someone’s teeth during a job interview.”
Jared shifts closer, his knee pressing against mine. His forehead is rumpled adorably in concern in a way that makes me want to reassure him.
“It’s fine. He was seriously a nice guy. But there just wasn’t anything more there, you know?”
“Yes, I know what that’s like,” he says, finally ripping his stare away from me and reaching for the remote.
“So it looks like my quest to find someone who will actually want to have sex with me continues,” I say.
Jared freezes, swiveling back to face me. “What are you talking about?”
The confusion on his face sends a spike of irritation through me, and the words spill from my mouth without me having a chance to filter them.
“Oh, come on, Jared. You don’t have to tiptoe around my feelings.
You’re the only random guy I’ve managed to hook up with since my accident, and that required Halloween costumes and a whole lot of makeup.
“You haven’t wanted me again since you saw me in full daylight. It’s okay. I’m not trying to make you feel guilty, I’m just stating a fact. Guys don’t want to hook up with me now because of what I look like.”
Jared’s face goes through a series of expressions so fast I can’t catch them all. Disbelief. Anger. Something that looks almost like pain. His whole body is tense, practically vibrating with some emotion I can’t name. The intensity in his eyes makes my breath catch.
“You honestly think—” His voice is rough, and he breaks off, running a hand through his hair roughly.
Then he’s crowding in my space, close enough that I can see his pulse hammering in his throat before he yanks me forward and kisses me like he’s drowning and I’m air.
And holy god, I’ve never had a kiss like it.
I’ve never had someone kiss me like I’m the only thing in the universe that matters, like the entire time-space continuum will end if we don’t mesh our lips together.
His mouth crashes into mine with enough force to push me back into the couch cushions.
It’s like he’s trying to steal my breath, trying to steal my soul from me.
I might very well hand it over willingly if he continues to kiss me like this.
Jared kissed me before, of course, the night of Halloween, and I’d thought he was amazing at kissing then. But now I realize that was Jared-lite, the reduced, low-carb version of Jared, and now I’m getting Jared unleashed.
It’s like comparing a match flame to a wildfire.
One of his hands tangles in my hair, tight enough to make my scalp tingle, while the other grips my hip, pulling me closer until I’m basically in his lap. I can feel how much he wants this in the way his fingers tighten when I make a small noise against his mouth.
My body feels like it’s been plugged into the mains, electricity shooting from where his lips meet mine all the way down to my toes, which are currently curling in my shoes like they’re trying to hold on to something solid while the rest of me dissolves.
Jared knows exactly who I am now. There’s no makeup, no darkness, just my scarred face in his living room with all the lights on.
I’m going to take it as a compliment that he’s kissing me so intently, like our bodies being separate is a fundamental design flaw of the universe.
I kiss him back with the same fierceness, pouring months of frustration and want into it, my hands finally getting to do what they’ve been itching to do and tangle in his hair, which is just as soft as I remember.
When my hand slides down to his neck, I feel his pulse racing under my palm.
His chest is heaving when he pulls back from me, his pupils blown out, his hair sticking up because apparently my hands decided to style it into interpretive art.
There’s a red mark on his neck where I must have gripped too hard, and his lips are swollen and shiny.
Holy fuck, Jared is looking at me like this. Jared, my Jared, is looking at me like he craves me the exact same way I crave him.
“Do you want this?” he pants out.
“God, yes.” My voice is almost a groan.
And we’re kissing again, and it’s just as incredible. Is he some kind of kissing guru? Did he take a masterclass? Is there a qualification for making someone forget their own name through strategic use of tongue?
If so, he’s going for extra credit as he moves his mouth from my lips, across my jaw, and down my neck, sucking lightly in a way that makes me wonder if it’s possible to die from arousal.
His hands are sliding under my fancy date shirt, and the feeling of his palms flat against my chest makes me realize just how touch-starved I’ve been. Like I’m a plant that’s been living in a closet, suddenly discovering sunlight exists.
I’m fully in his lap now, and I can feel his hard cock through his sweatpants.
I tug at Jared’s T-shirt with all the grace of someone trying to unwrap a present while wearing oven mitts.
He lifts his arms to help, and when the T-shirt finally comes off, I have to take a moment because seeing Jared shirtless while knowing he actually wants me here is doing things to my emotional state that Annie would probably need three sessions to unpack.
I put a hand on his chest, relishing the way his muscles tense under my palm when I drag my fingernails lightly down his warm skin.
His fingers work at my buttons with surprising steadiness, considering I can feel his hands trembling slightly, and when he presses his lips to the hollow of my throat, I realize I might actually cry. Not from sadness, but from the overwhelming relief of being wanted again.
Especially by this man.
I take a deep breath, sliding my hands down his flat stomach, but my journey south is thwarted by the drawcord on his track pants, which seems to have been tied by someone training for competitive sailor knots.
“What is this? A chastity belt?” I complain.
“It’s a simple drawcord.” Jared reaches down to help me.
“It’s defective. We should sue the manufacturer for cock-blocking.”
“Or you could just—” He undoes it in one smooth motion.
“Show-off,” I mutter, but I’m distracted by the strip of skin revealed as his track pants slide lower.
Jared, of course, is coordinated enough to remove both his pants and boxers in one go, leaving me with a fantastic view of the good stuff.