Chapter 27 Isla
TWENTY-SEVEN
ISLA
Jack eases me off his lap. I lie back on the blanket, the blush-streaked sky spinning a little behind him. Or maybe that’s just the wine and the way my heart’s doing its best hummingbird impression.
He braces one hand beside my shoulder, the other warm on my waist, and looks down like he’s checking for my enthusiasm. My interest laid out in all the tiny details.
We don’t have things figured out yet. The grant. This marriage. The future that’s suddenly not theoretical or years away but sitting right here on a blanket by the river.
Still, I know this man has always been on my side. I know he’s safe and warm.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “You still okay?”
“Yeah. You?”
“Working on it.” His thumb traces a line under the hem of my sweater, a drag of skin that makes everything inside me tighten.
“You can tell me to stop,” he says. “Anytime. For any reason. I mean it. You say the word, and we go back to drinking and complaining about Beau. Or we leave. I don’t care, as long as you’re okay.”
“I’m okay. If I wasn’t, you’d know.”
“Good,” he murmurs. “Because I’ve wanted this for a long, long time.”
He lowers his mouth to mine and kisses me slowly, giving me a chance to calibrate. I tilt my chin, slide my hand up to his jaw, and kiss him back in a way that should answer at least three different questions.
His weight settles more fully against me. The world shrinks to the scrape of his stubble under my palm and the taste of Mirabelle on his tongue. When his hand slides under my sweater, up the bare line of my side, I shiver.
It’s been a long time since I let anyone close like this. Since I wanted anyone to be.
“Still good?” he murmurs against my mouth.
“Yes,” I breathe. “Stop asking.”
He huffs a laugh and kisses me again, fingers splaying against my rib cage.
I curl one leg around his to tug him closer. He whimpers a little. It does something to me, the way he’s just as affected, just as wrecked by all of this. For once, this isn’t Jack swooping in to fix a problem. This is both of us stepping over the same line.
“Isla, baby.”
“Yeah?”
“I want to take care of you.”
Heat flares through me so fast I feel a little dizzy. I swallow, nod once. “I want that, too.”
His pupils go dark. He presses a soft kiss to my mouth, then my chin, then the hollow of my throat. His hand coasts down my side, slow enough for me to arch into him.
The blanket rustles under us when I shift, when he helps me out of my shirt with a gentleness that makes my chest ache. It’s a warm spring day, and I’m flushing.
“You’re beautiful,” he says.
I almost make light of it. Throw out a deflective comment about farmer’s tans and stress weight. Old habits. Instead, I bite the inside of my cheek and let the words land. They hurt, and then they settle in a place that’s been empty for a while.
He kisses his way down, over my collarbone and to the center of my chest. Every touch is unhurried. Every pause feels like a question he’s letting me answer with my breathing, with the way my fingers slide into his hair.
“Jack,” I whisper when he reaches the waistband of my jeans.
He stills immediately, looks up. “Too much?”
“No,” I say quickly, then laugh at myself. “No. I just . . . forgot what it’s like to be the one being taken care of.”
“Get used to it,” he says, voice rough. “I’m not going anywhere.”
I believe him. I don’t know when that happened. Somewhere between the first time he showed up on my property with a cocky attitude and this moment, on a blanket by the river, letting him undo my buttons.
He eases my jeans over my hips. The next thing I feel is his calloused hands, and then his mouth following the same path, leaving a trail of warmth that makes me writhe.
“Tell me if you want slower,” he says. “Or different. Or nothing. You can just lay here and let me worship you a little.”
I choke out a laugh. “You’re really leaning into the husband role.”
“Just trying to get a good performance review.”
He grips my hips firmly, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh there, grounding me as he peels my panties down my legs. His fingers part my folds gently, exploring the slick wetness already gathering there. He circles my entrance with one fingertip, dipping inside before pulling back.
Then he leans in, light stubble scraping deliciously against my sensitive skin. I thread my fingers through his hair, holding him there. My mind fragments as he blows a soft puff of air over my clit—my muscles tense, inner walls fluttering emptily, begging to be filled.
I whimper, my body arching off the blanket in a silent plea.
When his mouth finally finds my clit, pleasure hits so sharply I have to grab fistfuls of the blanket to stay anchored. I make a sound I’m pretty sure the entire river hears.
He pulls back an inch. “Good?”
“More, please.”
His answering laugh is muffled, and then he does exactly what I asked without rush or showmanship. He gives me his steady, focused attention, like making me fall apart isn’t just something he wants, but something he considers his responsibility.
A husband’s duty.
It’s a slow build. His tongue laps at my clit in slow, firm strokes, circling the swollen nub before he sucks it gently between his lips. I buck against his face, the pressure coiling tight in my belly.
He slides two fingers inside me then—finally filling me—curling them to hit that spot that makes stars burst behind my eyelids. My pussy clenches, slick sounds filling the air as he pumps in and out.
The wet heat of his tongue flicks faster now, the stretch of his fingers fucking me deeper. My thighs tremble, clamping around his head, but he holds them open with strong hands.
“Come for me, Isla,” he murmurs against my skin.
When I finally break, it’s not pretty. My back arches. My vision goes white around the edges. I hear myself say his name, over and over again.
He stays with me through all of it. Only when I go limp does he ease back, pressing soft, reverent kisses to my thighs and then higher, up my stomach, my ribs, my sternum, until he’s braced above me.
I blink up at him, trying to remember how to breathe.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
I huff out a stunned laugh. “Define okay.”
He grins, relief written all over him. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
My limbs feel pleasantly useless, heavy in a good way. I reach up, hook my fingers in the front of his shirt, and tug him down until our mouths meet again.
I taste myself on his lips. Instead of feeling self-conscious, I feel weirdly, intensely claimed. “Jack Rhodes,” I murmur when I catch my breath. “Five stars. We’re definitely keeping you on.”
“Excellent. I’m very committed to this position.”
“Terrible.”
I’m smiling. I can’t seem to stop.
He laughs into my mouth, then kisses me again, like we have all the time in the world. And maybe we do. Maybe, if we can get through contracts and grants and zoning boards, if we keep choosing each other, we can have a whole lifetime of this.
I slide my hand down his chest, tension still humming through him. It’s want and restraint braided together. “Your turn,” I say softly.
His eyes darken. “Isla, you don’t have to—”
“I know,” I cut in. “I want to.”
I shift, rolling us with more enthusiasm than grace until he’s on his back and I’m half on top of him, the river and trees spinning a little at the edges of my vision.
“You sure?” he asks gruffly.
I lean down and kiss him, fingers working at his waistband. “I want to take care of you, too,” I say against his mouth. “So maybe let me.”
He exhales shakily and tips his head back, giving me his throat.
I tug his shirt open, exposing the hard planes of his chest, dusted with dark hair that trails down to his belt. My fingers trace the ridges of his abs, feeling them flex under my touch.
I pop the button on his jeans and ease the zipper down, my hand brushing the bulge straining against his boxers. He’s hard, thick, the outline of his cock making my mouth water.
Pushing the denim down his hips, I free him completely, his cock springing up, heavy and veined. I wrap my hand around the base, feeling the heat and pulse of him, stroking slowly from root to tip.
He hisses, hips jerking up into my grip. “Fuck, Isla,” he mutters, eyes squeezing shut.
I shift lower, settling between his legs now. I lick a stripe along the underside of his shaft, tasting the salt of his skin.
My lips close around the head, sucking gently, tongue swirling over the slit. I take him deeper, inch by inch, relaxing my throat as I bob my head, hollowing my cheeks for tighter suction.
“God, your mouth,” he pants.
I look up at him through my lashes, seeing the flush on his neck, the way his lips part with each ragged breath. It only spurs me on.
One hand strokes what I can’t fit, twisting at the base, while the other cups his balls, rolling them gently. I can feel him swelling, the telltale twitch that means he’s close.
“Isla, I’m gonna—” he warns, but I don’t pull away. I want it all.
He comes with a guttural groan. I suck him through it, swallowing every drop, until he’s spent and trembling. Easing off, I press a final kiss to the softening head.
“You’re exceptional at that,” I say, snuggling up beside him.
“Me?” he asks incredulously.
“Most men don’t last longer than a minute or two.”
He groans. “Don’t talk to me about other men.”
I laugh. “At all? Ever?”
“Precisely.”
He drags me up his chest until I’m sprawled over the top of him. Then he kisses my hair. We lie there listening to the river, and I’m a bit wonderstruck by it all.
Six years. We should have been doing this all along. Although maybe it wouldn’t have felt this earned if we’d gotten here any sooner. Maybe it’s only this sugary sweet because we spent so long making each other work for it.
Another miracle, I suppose, that we just shouldn’t question.