CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Hendrix
N ow what?
That’s the question I keep asking myself as we drive home in the limo from the gala. Something has shifted, changed, and I don’t know what exactly that is.
It’s in Jase’s silence as he stares outside at the world passing by.
It’s in the energy crackling between us. It feels different. More undeniable. More real.
My go-to in these situations is to crack a joke, to lighten the mood with something silly, but I don’t say a word. It’s like an inexplicable line was crossed, and I don’t know how to navigate that.
So I let the silence stretch, and a suffocating weight settles between us.
Did I do something wrong?
I thought the sex was fun and flirty... definitely the hottest thing I’ve ever done... but did something happen after that when we went back to the party for the short time before the car came?
When we step inside the house, the tension only thickens to the point that I can’t stand it anymore.
“So what gives?” I ask. My heels are in one hand and I hold them up as I shrug. “What did I do wrong? Why are you not talking?”
Jase just looks at me like a tiger casing his prey, and I’m not sure if I should be unnerved by it or turned on.
But his lack of words wreaks havoc on my nerves.
“Hello? Say something. Anything?”
“Not a big fan of all the men talking to you tonight.”
“Pot? Meet kettle,” I say and roll my eyes. He can’t be serious. Madison was far from the only woman hoping to get beneath him tonight.
“Still. Not a fan.”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t have picked me for a wife, huh?” I don’t know why I’m raring for a fight. Maybe it’s because I feel like I’ve done something wrong and I’m trying to create a defense, just in case.
Stupid, but in the moment, true.
“I didn’t say there was a problem with it. I said I wasn’t a fan of it,” he says stoically.
“You can drop the jealous husband act. No one’s here to watch.”
He takes a step toward me, hands in his pockets. “It wasn’t an act.”
“Then what is your problem? Why the cold shoulder? Why—”
“Will you shut up?” he says as he yanks me against him and slants his lips over mine in a kiss to rival all kisses. In a kiss that could start and end wars. It’s full of hunger and heat and want and desire.
One hand fists in my hair, tilting my head back so I have no other place to look than into his eyes—so that my entire world becomes him in my line of sight—and his other hand holds me firmly against him.
“I’m quiet because all I can think about is wanting to do that to you. All fucking night. I want to kiss you and taste you and fuck you. And even after today—after earlier—you’re still fucking here. I don’t know what that means to me. I don’t know what to feel, because I don’t deserve it. But you are still here . So I’m trying to not question it so I don’t push you away. That’s the last fucking thing I want to do right now.”
His rush of words, his startled confession, is mind-bending to me, and a part of me wishes he’d been drinking so I can blame it on that, but he hasn’t.
He knows what he’s saying.
And it’s what I think I need to hear, but in the same breath what I’m terrified to hear.
Something happened to him today. Something that he won’t discuss with me. He was vulnerable and instead of me being put off by it, I didn’t budge.
That’s all he’s talking about.
That’s all he’s implying.
And even I don’t buy the lie.
But he’s looking like he is—with emotion welling in his eyes and his chest heaving against mine—and I want more. Of him. Of whatever this is. Of the madness that we are together.
I reach up and run my palms down both sides of his cheeks, framing his face there. I feel the muscles in his cheeks turn up as he offers a stuttered smile.
“I’m here, Jase. Right here. Right now. That’s what we have, right?” His breath hitches, just barely, but I catch it seconds before I brush my lips to his. “Need me. Take me. Want me. Use me.”
That’s all it takes to reignite the still-smoldering fuse.
My lips crash against his as we move down the hall. His hands grip my hips like I’ll disappear if he lets go.
The kiss is fire and fury. It’s the pent-up tension unraveling between us in a single touch of our tongues. He pulls me closer, backing me against the doorframe. I’m desperate to feel every inch of him.
“ Jase .” His name—one word—means so many things.
What is this?
How did this happen?
Why do I feel so strongly for you when I shouldn’t?
He rests his forehead against mine and sucks in a ragged breath, clearly trying to process his own questions, his own wants. Or simply trying to come up with reasons why this is a bad idea when it feels so goddamn good.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs. “Tell me I’m crazy for wanting you this bad.”
I open my mouth to speak, to give him the answer I think he wants to hear—it’s just sex, just physical—but it feels like so much more than that.
And both of us are terrified to admit it.
So I hide behind that fear.
I choose to show him with actions instead.
I slide a hand slowly back up his chest, up the side of his neck so that I can fist it in the short hair at the back of his neck, and then I lean in to kiss him again.
“You’re not crazy,” I murmur. “Far fucking from it.”