THIRTY-EIGHT
JORDIE
We don’t eat. The soup cools. The sandwiches stiffen.
And he kisses me like he’s starving. Like if he just presses hard enough, he might excavate whatever this is between us—get to the bones of it, the shape of what we could be.
And maybe I let him.
Because I’m starving too.
For him. For the sound of anything louder than this doesn’t make us anything.
I press into him until we’re a mess of teeth, tongues, and unsaid things. Everything knotted in the space between breath and denial.
We stumble into the bedroom, still half-clothed, wholly undone. I tug his shirt over his head and shove his sweats down without ceremony.
He lets me push him back onto the bed. With a low grunt, he scoots up the mattress, eyes locked on mine as I crawl after him. He reaches. Maybe for my breasts. Maybe to slide beneath my shirt. But I grab his wrists before he can touch me and pin them to the mattress.
I straddle him. Kiss him. Deep, consuming, aching. A kiss that says, “This is the shape of what I’ll give you. Don’t ask for more.”
His mouth chases mine when I pull back. My lips trail lower, over the curve of his throat, the hollow beneath his collarbone, the hard lines of his chest.
He tastes of salt, summer, and something that answers to every part of me. Something I shouldn’t be letting myself want this much.
By the time I reach his stomach, his abs are tight beneath my mouth, his breath clipped and uneven. He props himself on his elbows, eyes dark, voice a husky scrape.
“Jordie . . . you don’t—”
He’s already hard, already helpless in my palm. Beautiful in that stunned, breathless way.
My voice stays smooth. Clean-edged. The kind of soft that cuts. “You said later.”
My thumb slides over the slick head of his cock. I dip my head, my breath teasing the tip of him.
“Well,” I say quietly, “it’s later.”
I kiss him there. Open-mouthed. Slow. Enough to make his hips shift. Enough to feel him fight the urge to thrust.
I look up through my lashes and see it land. The sharp hitch in his throat. The restraint in his clenched jaw.
“When I say something,” I whisper, dragging my tongue along the ridge, flicking it once, “I follow through.”
A beat.
“Thoroughly.”
And then I take him into my mouth.
His whole body reacts—hips jolting, thighs tensing. A broken curse shoving past his lips. His fists knotting the sheets like it’s the only thing keeping him from grabbing my hair and holding me down.
I take my time. Pace steady. Pressure firm. My hand strokes what my mouth can’t reach. When I glance up, I see him. Head tipped back. Eyes squeezed shut. Missing every fucking second of me on my knees for him.
I let him slip from my mouth with a soft pop that makes his cock twitch harder.
“All this work,” I say, using my hands to pump him up and down, “and you’re not even watching.”
His head snaps up as if I had flipped a switch. That fucked-out haze clears just enough for his eyes to lock on mine, sharp and stunned.
“That’s better.” I lean in, tongue trailing from base to tip, dragging his focus only to me.
I put his cock in my mouth again. My head bobs up and down, slow then fast. His cock throbs on my tongue. I taste salt and earth and all the good things I know I can’t keep forever.
I take him deeper. Another inch. Another after that.
His fingers brush along my jaw. Trace the tension where my cheeks hollow for him. The slick heat of my mouth pulling around him. He murmurs something broken. Can’t tell if it’s my name or just a sound. Then he wraps my hair around his hand, anchoring me there.
I swirl my tongue around him. Let my throat tighten, flutter, stretch. Moan when he groans. Hand never slowing. Stroking him at the base. Matching the slick pull of my mouth, each movement building on the last.
“Sweetheart,” he rasps, voice shaking, “you’re gonna make me—”
Good. That’s the point.
I suck harder. Deeper. Faster. Until he’s pulsing against my throat.
“Jordie—oh, fuck—”
His lips part on a sound that feels pulled from somewhere low and helpless. He comes, spilling into my mouth, hot and thick and relentless.
I take it all. Every pulse. Every twitch. Every drop. I don’t stop until he’s gone soft in my mouth.
When I finally let him go, he’s gasping. Eyes wild. Chest rising.
I kiss the dip of his stomach. Crawl up his body. His arms gather me close like it’s second nature.
I don’t let him speak. Don’t let him say “thank you” or something worse.
I just kiss him. Let him taste his own ruin through my lips. Let him taste how much I wish it wasn’t just this.
Then I slip away. Off the bed. Into the bathroom.
Because I’ve already said everything I need to. Meant every word.
Just this. Just friends.
Nothing more.
Or so I keep telling myself.
Because anything more would mean hoping.
And hoping is reckless.