9. Jon #2
“This thing between us. How it feels different.” My eyes hold hers, the kitchen suddenly too warm, too small.
“Different how?” Her breath catches slightly.
I search for words that won’t sound ridiculous coming from a man who’s faced down armed hostiles without blinking. “More—consequential.”
“That’s a cautious word.” Her lips curve in a small smile.
“I’m being careful.” I toss the towel onto the counter. “Maybe too careful.”
“Maybe.” She steps closer, eliminating the last bit of distance between us. Her hand comes up to rest against my chest, light but deliberate. “I’ve never seen you hesitate before. Not in anything.”
“The stakes were different before.” The weight of her palm against my heartbeat anchors me.
Understanding dawns in her eyes, and something else—vulnerability mixed with desire. I lean down, resting my forehead against hers, breathing in the scent of her—floral and warm with undertones of wine.
“Your father would definitely not approve of this,” I murmur.
“That just makes it better.” A small laugh escapes her.
“Rebellious streak.” I smile against her skin.
“You have no idea.” She tilts her face up, lips a breath away from mine.
Her boldness ignites something raw in me. No more holding back, no more careful distance. We’ve already laid our cards on the table at the beach—her fears about not being enough, my assurances that what we have is whole and complete. Now there’s nothing left but action.
I slide my hand into her hair, tilting her face up to mine. Her eyes darken, pupils dilating until only a thin ring of blue remains.
With deliberate slowness, I cup the back of her neck, my other hand settling at her waist, drawing her in until our bodies press together.
Her breath quickens as she rises on tiptoes. My restraint snaps like a wire pulled too tight.
The first touch of her lips is tentative, questioning. The second is not. I kiss her deeply, thoroughly, pouring months of restraint and longing into the contact. Her mouth opens under mine, a small sound of pleasure escaping her as my tongue sweeps inside.
I back her up against the counter, lifting her easily to sit on the edge.
Her legs part, allowing me to step between them, bringing us closer still.
The new position puts us eye to eye, her thighs warm against my hips.
I cup her face, my thumb tracing the delicate curve of her cheekbone as I break the kiss to study her flushed cheeks, parted lips, eyes dark with desire.
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” I murmur, my voice rough even to my own ears.
Her answer is to draw me back in, her kiss hungrier now, more demanding. Her hands slide under my shirt, exploring the planes of my back, nails dragging lightly along my spine. The sensation sends heat flooding through me.
I trail my lips along the line of her jaw, tasting the softness of her skin.
Her head falls back, offering her throat to me.
I accept the invitation, pressing open-mouthed kisses down the column of her neck, feeling her pulse racing beneath my lips.
She tastes like salt and wine, and something uniquely her own.
Her fingers thread through my hair, guiding me, urging me on. When I find a particularly sensitive spot where her neck meets her shoulder, she gasps, her body arching against mine.
“More,” she whispers, the single word both command and plea.
I smile against her skin, taking my time, learning what makes her breath catch. My hands slide beneath her borrowed T-shirt, tracing the curve of her waist and the warm softness of her back. Her skin is like silk beneath my calloused palms.
“Take this off.” She tugs at my shirt, impatient.
I oblige, stepping back just long enough to pull the shirt over my head. Her eyes darken as she takes me in, her hands immediately reaching to explore newly exposed skin. The sensation of her touch—gentle yet possessive—sends electricity racing through my veins.
“Your turn,” I say, fingers playing with the hem of her shirt.
She lifts her arms in answer. I peel the shirt slowly upward, revealing smooth skin inch by inch, the lace edge of her bra, the gentle swell of her breasts. The sight of her half-undressed in my kitchen, looking at me with undisguised hunger, nearly brings me to my knees.
I drop the shirt to the floor and step back between her legs, my hands spanning her waist. Her skin is warm against mine as I bend to press my lips to the hollow of her throat, then lower, tracing the edge of her collarbone with my tongue.
Her hands grip my shoulders, nails digging in slightly when I brush my lips against the swell of her breast just above her bra.
A small, breathy sound escapes her. I look up—she’s watching me, lips parted, cheeks flushed. God, she’s beautiful like this. Unraveled. Wanting. I capture her mouth again, the kiss deeper, hungrier, claiming every soft gasp she gives me like I’ve earned it.
Her legs lock around my waist, pulling me in until there’s not a breath of space left between us. Heat radiates through the denim where we press—scorching, unrelenting. It short-circuits every rational thought in my head.
My hands slide down to cup her ass, dragging her tighter. I need her to feel it—that she’s driving me insane. That she owns me right now, in every way that counts.
No games. No flings. This isn’t about sex. It’s her. All of her. And she’s mine.
She breaks the kiss with a gasp, her forehead pressed to mine, both of us breathing hard, like we’ve run miles just to get here. Her fingers drift over my chest—circling, teasing—each touch branding me. Her eyes meet mine, wide open, dark with certainty.
“Jon.” My name, wrecked and reverent, falls from her lips. “I want you.”
Three words. That’s all it takes. The rest of the world ceases to exist.
I lift her in one smooth motion, her thighs clinging tight to my waist, her breath catching as I hold her there, pressed against me like she belongs. She does. God, she does.
The hallway blurs as I carry her, the only light a soft spill from the kitchen behind us. My shoulder nudges the bedroom door open, and then we’re inside. My sanctuary. And now it’s ours.
I lower her to the bed, slow and reverent. Her hair fans across the pillow, a golden halo in the low light. And fuck, the way she looks at me—no fear, no hesitation. Just hunger. Trust.
It slams into me like a punch to the chest.
“You’re beautiful.” The words feel too small, too tame for what I feel. But I need her to hear them. I need her to know.
She reaches up, fingers curling into my hair, voice low and trembling with need. “Show me.”
God help me. I will.
I dip my head, catching her mouth with mine.
This kiss—this one is slower, deeper. Not a question.
A vow. My fingers trace the warm silk of her skin.
She arches into me, breath shivering from her lungs as I skim higher, memorizing the curve of her waist, the lift of her ribs, the soft catch in her breath when I brush the underside of her breast.
She’s trembling. Or maybe it’s me.
I want to go slow, draw this out, worship every inch of her. But the need pulsing through my veins is savage. Primal.
Still, I force myself to pause, hovering above her, breathing her in. “Last chance to stop me,” I murmur, my voice raw with restraint.
Her eyes blaze. “Don’t you dare.”
And just like that, I’m gone.