Chapter 17 #2
“No,” he says. “Not them.” He’s quiet for a beat. “Callum. I thought you wanted…that you maybe wanted to leave with him and it made me…I didn’t realize it would make me…”
“You were jealous?” Something flares in my chest, surprise and wonder, and the tiniest tinge of pleasure.
“Yes,” he says. We take the last step upstairs, and he turns to me, his next words coming out in a hoarse whisper. “I was.” He shakes his head. “I was out of my mind with it.”
My insides go hot, and I reach for him. For his shirt, his collar, anything I can get my hands on.
“I would have been too,” I say against his lips. “I would have—” And then our mouths meet.
I don’t know what else I would have said, what I would have done. I’m lost, untethered, only holding on to this. The low groan he makes, the way his hand comes to my lower back, pushing me against him.
Sparks skitter across my skin, igniting every place we touch. I feel his thighs, firm and hard beneath his kilt, as he slots one of them right in between mine.
I gasp, and he absorbs the sound, keeping me quiet.
“My bedroom,” he says, hushed and low, and moments later we’re there, just down the hall.
He unlocks the door, and he’s barely opened and closed it before my back’s pressed against it, his hands at my waist, lifting me slightly until we’re at eye level.
My arms wind around his neck, and he brings his lips to mine, the two of us slotting together in a way that feels natural. Easy. Every movement of our bodies is in sync, instinctive, as if we can predict how the other will respond.
He reaches for my leg, lifting it around his hip, and I do the same with the other, wrapping myself around him.
“Tell me something,” I tell him, tearing my mouth away for only a moment, then bringing it back to his.
“Tell you—” He pulls away, his pupils wide, his breathing harsh. “Tell you something?”
“Yes,” I say.
He hitches me higher against his body, then turns from the door, walking us the short distance to the bed.
“Like what?” he asks.
“Anything,” I say as he lowers me to the comforter.
“Anything?”
I nod. I shuffle backward, and he follows me. “Anything,” I say again. “As long as it’s true.”
His mouth curves up then, soft and gentle. “Anything,” he repeats, his voice quiet. He looks at me, thoughtful for a moment, and then I feel his fingers at the hem of my dress.
“Okay,” he says. His thumb plays right at the edge of the fabric, brushing against the skin of my thigh.
It feels so good, an absent sort of caress that makes me feel heavy, my body sinking into the mattress.
He lowers himself, hovering over me, his face taking up my entire field of vision.
“I have to tell you…”
“Yeah?”
“I hated this dress.”
My mouth falls open. “What?”
His fingers form a fist, crumpling the fabric, pulling it higher. “I hated it,” he says. “When I first saw you in it. At the wedding.”
“Hey!” I rise up on my elbows, but stop when he continues.
“You were…so gorgeous and put-together and completely off-limits.” He kisses me, and I melt into it, melting further when his open mouth travels down the curve of my neck.
“And then you asked me to unzip you,” he says.
“And it was cruel. Finally having my hands back on you, but not in the way I wanted.” He pulls at my skin, his teeth nipping, and I gasp.
“Having to restrain myself. Terrified that you would see the way it affected me.
Angry at myself for being affected at all.
“And then I saw you wear it today, and it was—I couldn’t—seeing you back in that dress.
Remembering how it looked unzipped, parted down the line of your back, the lace of your bra visible.
” He trails a finger over my shoulder, tracing the exposed strap of my bra, and I shiver.
“All of it came back to me. And I tried—I tried to think about something else, anything else, but that was all I could see.”
His lips come back to my neck, and I arch into him.
“Help me take it off again,” I mumble. I try to turn so he can access the zipper, but he stops me.
“Not yet,” he says. He kisses me, his mouth soft and warm and firm. “It’s your turn.”
“My turn for…”
“Your turn to tell me something,” he says.
“Oh.” I blink up at him, his face illuminated by the lamp on the nightstand.
I can see the faint stubble growing in along his jaw, and his eyes are bright and shining, the color of whiskey.
And with the way he’s leaning over me, his hair flops in every direction, some of it falling over his forehead.
I reach up and push that piece back, and he closes his eyes at the touch.
“I…okay, let me preface this by saying I’m saying it for the same reason you did.”
His eyes fly back open, his expression a touch bemused.
“Okay,” he says slowly.
“Okay,” I say. “I…I hate your kilt.”
For half a second, he’s still, and then he laughs, deep and rumbling, and I can feel it, the vibrations of his chest traveling through me.
“Oh yeah?” he says.
“Yeah.” I run my foot up the back of his bare leg. “It’s appalling. I never knew I had a thing for guys in kilts until you.”
A smile plays at his mouth. “Guys in kilts or…”
I roll my eyes. “Fine,” I say, and he laughs again. “You. I have a thing for you in a kilt.”
He rewards my honesty with another kiss, and I pull him toward me. He’s been holding himself up, hovering above me, but I want to feel the weight of him, the pressure, the feel of his body against mine.
“I have a thing for you in everything,” he says when he breaks away, the words the faintest whisper against my lips.
And whatever balance we’ve struck tonight begins to wobble.
Because that doesn’t sound like the continuation of a one-night stand. Fleeting and light. Something we’ll both walk away from in a few days.
It sounds like…more.
“Jacob,” I say, and he freezes, his hand going still in my hair.
“What?” he asks.
I lick my lips, my mouth feeling dry.
“Tell me,” he says softly.
It loosens the tight sensation in my chest, and the words flow out of me.
“I want this,” I say. “Tonight. But I just want to make sure that you know…that’s all it can be.
That we can’t—” I stop, a little unsure.
Maybe I’m reading too much into things. Maybe I’m assuming too much, but I want to be clear with him.
I’m leaving soon and this can’t…I can’t let this become anything more.
His hand moves then, his fingers lightly brushing through my hair. “So, just tonight?” he asks lightly, but I can see the slight strain in his face, can hear the effort in his voice that he’s trying to hide.
“I—” I hesitate. “I don’t know what else we could…”
He holds still for a moment, and then he kisses my temple. “It’s fine,” he says. “Tonight. I understand.”
I feel a tinge of regret. “Jacob,” I start, not quite sure what I want to say. I don’t want to hurt him, but I have to set these terms, have to make the parameters clear. Otherwise, I’m the one at risk of getting hurt. “Are you sure you’re okay with—”
He pulls back, and that small tinge of regret blossoms into something greater.
He’s done with me, I think. The sense of loss is immediate.
But he doesn’t move farther away. He remains above me, his gaze gentle.
“If all we have is tonight, I’d like to make the most of it,” he says softly. He leans down, brushing his lips against mine, the faintest kiss. “Wouldn’t you?” he asks.
“Yes,” I breathe against his mouth. “Yes.”
He settles more firmly against me, and with the weight of him, the feel of him against me, it’s like a switch has turned off in my brain. Like all the thoughts that usually travel a mile a minute through my mind are suddenly quiet, at peace.
“You smell so good,” Jacob says, his mouth following the curve of my neck, his tongue dipping into the hollow of my collarbone.
Oh my god.