Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
POWELL
The drive back to my place took seven minutes, but it felt like suspended time. As if the world outside the truck had blurred out, all cold air and Christmas lights, while every sense I had was tuned to the woman sitting in my passenger seat.
Jess didn’t talk. I didn’t either. But her hand stayed in mine on the console, fingers threaded tight, like she was afraid of breaking the moment if she let go. As if I even could. I was too afraid I’d find out I was dreaming.
By the time I parked outside my house, my pulse thundered in my ears. Jess sat there for a beat, thumb brushing once along the inside of my wrist. Barely a touch, but it lit a fire in my blood.
Slow your roll, Ferguson. Don’t make assumptions about where this is going.
I opened her door. She slid out, close enough that her shoulder brushed my chest, and the cold fogged around us. The whole block glittered—porch lights, holiday garlands, the big pine on the corner wrapped in white bulbs that blinked like falling stars.
Jess looked up at me, breath visible in the chilly air. “Powell.” She sounded decided, and I prayed I wasn’t reading this situation wrong.
I unlocked the door. Inside, the house was warm and dim except for the soft glow of Christmas lights from the street reflecting off the window glass, turning the living room into a quiet, amber cocoon.
I wished I’d put my own tree on a timer so she could’ve come inside to a little more Christmas magic, but it wasn’t like I’d expected this.
Jess stepped in, stopped, and let out a shaky, almost disbelieving breath. Her back was to me, but I saw the tension in her shoulders. Nerves? Anticipation?
I closed the door gently behind us. “Jess.”
She turned, and whatever words I thought I had dissolved.
Eyes molten, she crossed the space between us in three steps. One hand slid into my hair; the other pressed warm against my chest, right over my heart. She rose onto her toes and kissed me, a slow, lingering claim that told me she was unquestionably choosing me.
Thank. God.
I kissed her back, my hands curling at her waist to keep from moving too fast, taking more than she might be offering. She made a soft sound into my mouth that hit every raw, hopeful place inside me.
When she pulled back, her forehead rested against mine, breath trembling. “I want you.”
Not a trace of teasing. Only truth.
My knees almost gave out. “Jess, I need you to be absolutely sure—”
She cut me off by taking my wrist, lifting my hand, and pressing my palm flat against the warm skin beneath the hem of her shirt. That skin trembled faintly. A message written in touch.
“I’m sure,” she whispered. “I’m done running from things that matter.”
God.
I pressed my brow to her shoulder, breathing her in, and let the relief ground me. I wanted her in ways that were ten years old and also brand-new. But I wouldn’t rush her.
“Okay,” I murmured. “We go slow. Your pace.”
The space between us went electric, like the air before a storm—thick with anticipation, with something shifting.
Jess pulled back enough to meet my gaze, her eyes gone soft in the dim light, the kind of soft that made my pulse kick up.
“What if my pace is this?” she murmured, her voice low and steady, but I caught the faintest tremor beneath it.
Then she reached for the hem of her sweater.
My breath left me in a rush, like I’d been gut-punched.
The sweater rose, inch by inch, revealing skin I’d imagined a thousand times but never seen—not like this, not in the quiet intimacy of my house, not with her standing there, vulnerable and unafraid.
The pale glow from the window spilled over her, tracing the delicate line of her collarbone, the freckles dusted across her shoulders like constellations I’d never known about.
It caught on the faint shadow between her breasts, the gentle slope of her waist, the way her ribs expanded with each breath.
She wasn’t performing. She wasn’t trying to be anything but herself—honest, unguarded.
Perhaps the realest thing I'd ever seen.
The sweater dropped to the floor in a whisper of fabric.
“Jess.” Her name left me rough, almost reverent, like a prayer I’d been waiting a decade to say. My hands twitched at my sides, aching to touch her, but I held back, letting her set the rhythm.
She stepped closer, close enough that I felt the heat radiating off her skin.
Her fingers found the hem of my shirt next, sliding underneath with a confidence that made my stomach tighten.
She didn’t rush. She explored—trailing her fingertips over the ridges of my abs, up the ladder of my ribs, mapping me like she was memorizing the terrain.
Goosebumps chased her touch, and my body reacted in ways that were both familiar and entirely new, like every nerve ending had been rewired just for her.
Easy, Ferguson. Her pace.
I only helped her with my shirt when she tugged, letting her guide me.
The fabric pooled at our feet, and for a heartbeat, we stood there, skin to skin, the quiet between us thick with everything we’d never said.
I cupped her face, my thumbs brushing the soft warmth of her cheeks.
They were flushed, her lips parted, and I saw the rapid pulse at the base of her throat.
“Tell me if you want anything to stop,” I said, my voice rough.
Her answer came in the form of her hands sliding around my waist, pulling me flush against her. The press of her body was a live wire humming against my skin. “I’ll tell you,” she whispered, her breath warm against my chest. “But I don’t want you to stop.”
That was all it took.
I kissed her again, slow and deep, pouring every ounce of wanting into it—years of stolen glances, of almosts and what-ifs, of nights spent wondering what it would be like to have her like this.
Jess kissed me back with a fierceness that belied the tenderness of her touch, her fingers curling into my skin like she was afraid I’d disappear.
I tasted the desperation in her, the same desperation clawing at me, but we took our time. We savored.
I walked her backward toward the bedroom, one step at a time, punctuating each with a kiss—her lips, her jaw, the sensitive spot below her ear that made her breath hitch.
Every few steps, I pulled back far enough to check her eyes, to make sure she was still with me.
She was. God, she was. Her gaze was dark, her pupils blown, but clear—steady in a way that told me she was right here, choosing this, choosing me.
When the backs of her knees hit the mattress, she sat, her hands never leaving me.
She tugged me closer by the belt loops, her mouth trailing down my jaw, along the side of my neck, each kiss sending a jolt straight through me.
I threaded my fingers into her hair, tilting her head back to capture her lips again.
She made a soft, needy sound that shot straight to my gut.
We moved in slow, deliberate pieces. She lay back, pulling me with her, her hands sliding over my shoulders, grounding me.
I followed, bracing myself above her, my body humming with the need to touch her everywhere at once.
My hands mapped her slowly—the curve of her thigh, the dip of her waist, the soft inside of her arm.
Each touch was a question: Are you okay?
And every time, she answered—with the arch of her back, with the way her breath hitched, with the quiet yes she pressed against my throat.
Clothes came off in pauses, like we were unwrapping something precious.
Hers first, each piece removed with a deliberateness and reverence that made my chest ache.
The way her bra straps slid down her arms, the way her jeans pooled around her ankles—every reveal was like a held breath finally released.
Then it was my turn. Her fingers worked the button of my jeans, her touch sure even as her breath trembled.
The denim hit the floor, and then there was nothing left but skin and heat and the weight of a decade’s worth of almosts collapsing into this single, perfect now.
I lowered myself over her, my body covering hers, and she reached up, cupping my jaw to pull me into a kiss.
The world tilted beneath us. Deep and slow, it was the kind of kiss that rewrote history, that made every second before this a prelude.
Her legs parted, cradling my hips, and when I settled between them after rolling on a condom, the sensation of her—warm, soft, there—nearly undid me.
“Jess,” I breathed against her lips, my forehead pressed to hers. “Tell me what you need.”
Her answer was a broken whisper. “You. God, Powell—just don’t stop.”
So I didn’t. I slipped slowly into her tight, wet heat, and swore I was coming home.
We moved together in a rhythm both inevitable and impossible, like we’d been practicing this dance for years without ever knowing the steps.
I kept my pace slow, watching her face for every flicker of emotion—the way her brows furrowed when pleasure coiled tight, the way her lips parted on a shaky exhale, the way her nails dug into my shoulders when it became too much. I memorized it all.
When she wrapped her legs around my hips and lifted to meet me, the sound she made—a raw, unguarded cry—went straight to my core. It was the most honest thing I’d ever heard, the kind of sound that didn’t just ask for more but demanded it. I gave it to her. I gave her everything.
Her hand slid into my hair, gripping tight as pleasure crashed over her.
She whispered my name like it was the only word she knew, the only thing keeping her anchored.
I kissed her through every shiver, every breaking point, every crest of her release until she arched beneath me, her body tense and trembling, her breath catching in a way that made my entire chest ache with the need to follow her.
I did, moments later, burying my face in the curve of her neck as the world narrowed to this—her, me, the way she clung to me as if I was the only solid thing left. I held her through it, grounding us both as pleasure wrung me out, leaving me shaking and bright-eyed and utterly hers.
After, we stayed tangled together, her head resting on my shoulder, my hand tracing lazy, absent patterns up and down her spine.
The streetlights outside painted soft gold stripes across her bare skin, turning the room into something warm and quiet, a cocoon separate from the rest of the world.
Her breathing slowed, evened out, and I pressed my lips to her temple, as her body melted deeper into mine, like she was finally—finally—letting herself rest.
She was still catching her breath when she said, almost wonderingly, “I can’t believe we’re… here.”
I pressed a kiss to her temple. “Me neither.”
She shifted and my gaze. “Powell?”
“Yeah.”
“This isn’t… temporary.”
Not a question. A truth she needed named.
I cupped her cheek with my palm. “Jess. I’m not going anywhere. Not unless you tell me to.”
Her eyes softened—really softened, in a way I’d never seen from her. She rested her hand over mine.
“I don’t want you to go,” she whispered.
And that single sentence did something to me I didn’t even have words for.
I pulled her closer, fitting her against my chest, and she settled there like she’d been doing it for years.
Outside, the lights blinked softly in the December dark.
Inside, she let herself rest against me—really rest—and for the first time in a decade, I felt the solid, anchoring certainty of what we’d just chosen.
We were doing this.
Together.