10. The Shape Of A Secret #3
The image of myself doesn't stay with me. It flies back to Galveston. It flies back to the dark, humid interior of that motel room, where the neon sign outside the window leaked a steady, rhythmic pulse of pink light across the sheets.
I remember how Jax looked at this body.
He hadn't been gentle, but he had been reverent.
His massive, calloused hands had gripped my hips with an intensity that left faint, purple bruises for a week, anchoring me to the mattress as if he were afraid I would dissolve into the air.
Stanley had touched me like he was taking inventory.
Jax touched me like he was afraid of losing something.
His blond hair had brushed against my stomach, his heavy, rough beard scraping the soft skin of my inner thighs until I was begging him for relief.
A sudden, sharp pull of heat tightens deep in the low hollow of my pelvis, and my breath hitches in my throat. I tear my gaze away from the mirror, my cheeks flushing a dark, furious crimson that has nothing to do with the steam.
"Stop it," I whisper to the quiet bathroom. "Stop it, Nora."
I pull open the glass door of the shower stall and step directly into the heavy, cascading downpour of hot water.
The warmth hits my head, flattening my red hair to my skull and streaming down my face in a blinding sheet. I lean my back against the wet tile wall, letting the water wash over my chest and stomach, hoping the physical sensation will drown out the mental loop.
It doesn't help.
The water is too warm, mimicking the suffocating, enveloping heat of his presence. As I reach for the bar of soap, dragging my hands down the length of my arms to wash away the starchy residue of the kitchen, every single movement feels like a hallucination of his touch.
The friction of my own skin makes my breath catch.
I remember the weight of him. I remember the way his chest, carved out of solid muscle and scarred from years of heavy work, had pressed down against my breasts, flattening me into the bed until I could feel the direct, violent rhythm of his heart beating against my own.
My hands move down my ribcage, my fingers trembling as the water slickens my skin. I try to focus on the cleansing, on the practical reality of the shower, but the physical memory is a fire that the water cannot extinguish.
My hand moves over the curve of my waist, my thumb brushing against the outer edge of my right breast. The friction is electric. Before my brain can register the command to stop, my palm cups the heavy slope, my thumb trailing inward until it grazes the tight, sensitive tip of my nipple.
A sharp, breathless, throaty moan slips past my lips before I can choke it back, and the sound echoes loudly against the wet tiles.
My knees go instantly weak, so I clamp my legs tightly together, my inner thighs squeezing against each other as a sudden, heavy wave of moisture seeps out from the core of my body, thick and hot despite the rushing water.
The ache between my hips is a throbbing scream for satisfaction.
My right hand hovers over my stomach, my fingers curling, the desperate, basic instinct of my body screaming at me to slide those fingers down. To slide them between my squeezed thighs. To find the slick, burning center of the ache and rub until the tension explodes.
I freeze, my hand trembling violently an inch above my waist.
No. I bite down on my lower lip so hard I taste copper. I force my hand away from my body, slapping my palm flat against the cold, wet tile wall beside my head.
I don't want my own fingers. I don't want the quick, empty release of a solitary hand in a fogged-up shower stall.
I want to feel something that isn't grief or shame or the particular exhaustion of carrying a secret so long you forget what you weighed before it.
I want him.
I want his heavy, scarred hands locking my wrists to the headboard. I want the low, guttural growl of his voice in my ear telling me exactly how badly he needs to take me apart. I want the absolute, consuming violence of his desire to obliterate the memory of Stanley's spider-like touch.
And maybe that is the most dangerous part.
Because somewhere between the fence line and the diner and the porch, Jackson Rowe stopped feeling like another problem.
He started feeling like the place I run when everything else hurts.
I lean forward, pressing my forehead firmly against the cool, wet ceramic tile. The water beats relentlessly against the back of my neck, streaming down my spine in a steady torrent.
My whole body already has an opinion about Jackson Rowe.
I stand there in the dark heat, my breath rattling in my throat, and for the first time since I arrived in Moonrise, I stop pretending that I don't.
And then, because stopping pretending is not the same thing as doing something about it, I turn the water to cold.
I gasp. My spine slams straight. The shock of it clears my head in an instant, every nerve ending screaming.
I stand under it for thirty seconds.
Then I reach out and turn it off.
I am going to get that deed.
And then I am going to figure out what the hell to do about Jackson Rowe.
Because pretending he doesn't matter isn't working anymore.