17. First Night
seventeen
First Night
Jax
Nora blinks. A slight, confused furrow appears between her brows. Her long lashes sweep against her pale cheeks.
"What do you mean?" she asks.
"You know exactly what I mean."
I take half a step closer. The heavy, thick tread of my work boots grinds against the loose gravel and crushed shell of the yard. I stop when I am close enough that the heat radiating off my skin can bridge the gap between us.
"You have been putting me at arm's length since we met again," I tell her. "You draw a line, I step over it, and you draw another one.”
She raises her arm to gesture and ends up dropping it.
“You can’t stand here and pretend like what is happening between us isn't actually happening. It's time we hit the nail on the head."
Nora swallows hard, and I track the delicate, nervous movement of her throat and the sudden, sharp flash of pure panic that hits her blue eyes. Her weight shifts subtly back onto her heels, the deeply ingrained instinct to retreat and protect herself kicking in before she can even process my words.
But before she can take that step backward, before she can rebuild the barrier, I reach out to catch the edge of her sleeve, the rough, calloused pad of my thumb pressing lightly against the thin cotton over her forearm.
"I'm not pushing you," I say. The words come out rushed, carrying an urgency I haven't let myself feel in years. "I don't mean you have to tell me what happened to him."
Her chest rises in a fast, shallow breath. She looks at my hand on her arm, then back up to my face.
"I'm not asking for your history right now," I tell her. "I don't need you to unpack your pain or explain what hurts you. I can do without it, Nora."
Her eyes search mine, and I sense she is looking for the catch. She is looking for the hidden demand, the condition that always comes with an offer of protection in the world she knows.
"I just want to be there for you," I press. "I just want you to let me in."
Nora stares at me.
The crickets in the marsh grass start to hum again, filling the heavy silence of the yard.
The wind shifts, bringing the sharp, distinct scent of rain hitting the hot asphalt on the highway a mile out.
A full minute passes, and I continue to stand directly in front of her, letting my body block the wind, letting her take all the time she needs.
After the longest time, her lips part and she draws a shaky breath.
"You truly won't ask me again why I want to buy the land?" she asks. Her voice is barely more than a whisper.
"No," I say. I hold her eyes. I nod once, slowly. "I won't ask anymore."
She swallows again. "You won't ask me about the box you saw in my study?"
The memory of the content in the box flashes in my mind, and I force down the hollow, sharp ache in my ribs.
"No," I tell her. My voice is entirely firm. "I won't ask."
"And you won't ask what happened between Stanley and me?"
"No."
As if a weight has been lifted from her shoulder. I watch the physical tension drain entirely out of her body and the rigid, defensive line of her spine dissolves. The guarded set of her jaw completely relaxes.
She looks up at me. Her blue eyes are wide, vulnerable, and completely open in the dark.
"Can you give me a hug, then?" she asks softly.
The request is so simple and painfully human that it bypasses the last of my own internal armor completely. It hits me straight in the center of my chest.
I step closer. I close the remaining gap between us until the front of my dark t-shirt brushes against her cotton top.
"I can," I say, my voice dropping to a rough whisper. "But holding back once I touch you is the problem."
I look down at her, making sure she hears exactly what I am saying.
"I have been holding back for so long, Nora. I doubt I'll be able to stop myself the moment I touch you."
I need her to understand the stakes of this moment. I need her to know that if I put my arms around her right now, the boundary line between us is gone.
To my surprise, she doesn’t show any reaction or step back.
She tilts her head up, her gaze locking onto mine with an unwavering certainty that makes the blood roar in my ears.
"Hug me," she says again.
The permission is explicit, and she couldn’t have been any more direct.
I lift my hands to slide my palms over the soft curve of her shoulders, feeling the delicate, fragile shift of her collarbones beneath the thin shirt, and pull her forward.
She steps directly into my chest. Her arms wrap tight around my waist. Her face presses deeply into the crook of my neck.
I close my eyes and wrap my arms entirely around her.
The full impact of holding her against me is staggering. She is small but perfect against my frame as her head tucks perfectly beneath my chin.
I bury my face in the heavy silk of her hair to inhale the clean, sharp scent of cedarwood shampoo mixed with the damp, electrified air of the approaching storm. The heavy, erratic thud of my own heartbeat echoes in my ears, pounding against my ribs.
We stand in the dirt of the salvage yard for a long time until I start to feel a slight, uncontrollable tremor in her arms as she holds onto me. I open my hand and press my palm flat against the center of her back just as the first heavy drop of rain falls from the black sky.
It hits the corrugated metal roof of the fabrication shop behind us with a loud, distinct ping. I pull back just enough to look down at her face.
"Let's get out of the rain," I say quietly.
She nods.
I keep my arm firmly wrapped around her shoulders. I turn us away from the dark yard and the road where Stanley disappeared and guide her toward the wide, open bay doors of the shop.
The air inside smells of cut steel, ozone from the welding rig, and old engine grease. It is my space. It is the fortress I built to hide in when the noise of the town gets too loud, and bringing her across this threshold feels permanent.
I guide her past the heavy drill press and the stacked crates of raw iron, moving toward the massive steel-plated workbench at the back of the shop.
I reach out with my free hand and hit the switch on the wall. The harsh, blinding glare of the overhead halogens dies instantly. I reach across the desk and click the switch on the small amber drafting lamp.
The warm, gold light pushes back the shadows, creating a small, isolated circle in the cavernous room.
Nora stops near the edge of the heavy desk and turns to face me.
The rain is coming down on a solid sheet now. It hits the corrugated iron roof with a deafening, steady roar. It creates a dense, impenetrable perimeter around the building, making it seem as if we are completely cut off from the rest of the county.
I step perfectly into her space until the distance between us is gone.
"Nora," I say.
She keeps her eyes on my chest.
"Look at me."
She lifts her head. Her breath hitches in her throat, a soft, catching sound that I hear clearly over the drumming rain. Her eyes are wide, and bottomless in the amber light.
"Tell me to stop right now," I say quietly. My gaze is locked onto hers, holding her completely still. "Or I'm not going to."
She doesn't hesitate.
"Don't stop."
The words are a final, unbreakable seal on the night.
I lift my hand to trace the line of her jaw with the rough edge of my thumb. Her skin feels incredibly soft, and it is a stark, shocking contrast to the heavy calluses and ingrained grease on my palms.
She leans into the touch instantly. Her eyes flutter shut for a fraction of a second, a quiet sigh escaping her parted lips.
I track the shallow, rapid rise and fall of her chest beneath her cotton shirt. I notice the exact moment the final, lingering trace of defensive stiffness leaves her spine.
I watch the way she lifts her own hand, moving it slowly through the space between us, until she places her palm flat against the center of my chest. She rests it right over my heart.
Her fingers curl slightly into the dark fabric of my shirt, gripping me as if she needs the physical anchor of my racing pulse to keep herself from floating away.
She looks up at me again, and I register the sheer, overwhelming vulnerability in her expression.
She looks completely stunned. She looks like a woman who hasn't been looked at this gently, or this deliberately, in a lifetime.
It’s as if she hasn’t been the center of anyone's undivided, careful attention in years, or before, and it makes me feel the gravity of the moment more.
By bringing her into my shop, by touching her here, fifty yards from the dirt where my mother's clearing sits, I am crossing a line. I am claiming her. The realization makes the blood run hot and heavy through my veins.
It strips away whatever caution I had left, and I realize that I don't want to be cautious anymore. I want to be thorough.
I slide my other hand to her waist. My fingers grip the soft curve of her hip through the fabric of her pants.
I lift her effortlessly to set her back onto the edge of the heavy steel workbench.
The thick metal plate of the table is cold. The contrast with the heat radiating between our bodies makes her gasp slightly. Her hands slide up my chest, her fingers curling tight into the fabric of my dark t-shirt, pulling me closer.
I step directly between her knees, forcing myself not to rush. The driving, angry urgency that has been riding my spine all night morphs into something entirely different. It becomes a deep, heavy, and intense need to learn every single inch of her.
I reach for the top button of her oversized shirt.
My fingers are large and clumsy, but I manage to treat the small plastic button with a slow, meticulous reverence as I undo the first one.
Then the second. I keep my eyes on her face as the fabric parts, exposing the pale, smooth skin of her throat and collarbone.
Her breathing is coming faster now. Her chest rises and falls rapidly as I push the shirt off her shoulders and let it slide slowly down her arms until it pools at her waist.