Chapter 19 #2
Then Zoe twists her hips, and that’s it. I start to move—building pace, skin slapping, the counter rattling beneath us. Her nails drag down my neck, leaving marks, and I fucking love it.
She meets every thrust, bold, wild, her voice getting louder, dirtier. “Harder, Jonah—fuck me.”
I do. Holy hell, I absolutely do. Every ounce of patience I’ve ever possessed combusts on the spot.
I drive into her harder, deeper, the sound of skin on skin echoing off the kitchen tile, rough and fast and goddamn desperate.
She’s not delicate—she urges me on, gasping my name, telling me not to let up, her legs so fucking open and her heels pressing into my back.
She rocks into every thrust, wild, unguarded.
Her fingers rake through my hair, then hook my jaw with a grip that leaves marks.
She yanks my face down to hers and devours my mouth, tongue hot and insistent, lips bruising.
I barely keep upright—my knees buckle, vision sparks at the edges—all my focus goes to holding her, fucking her, keeping her right on the edge and beyond.
She tastes like honey and sweat and some feral need.
She starts to shake. I can feel it, the tremor in her thighs, in the way she claws at my back and goes rigid for a split second, then comes apart around me, as loud and uninhibited as the first time.
“God, Jonah,” she screams, head thrown back.
Her whole body convulses, hips jerking, sheer force of her orgasm nearly knocking me off my feet.
I hold steady, keep going, push her through it, loving how she never tries to muffle herself, how she just takes and takes and demands more.
My brain disintegrates. I feel every inch of her—slick, unbearably tight, shivering and clenching and dragging me along the same edge.
My body is pure reaction, just instinct and muscle memory and the rush of being wanted like this, so fiercely, by someone so incredible.
I’m not quiet, either. She milks the noise out of me.
When her aftershocks hit, I lose it, hips stuttering, forehead pressed to her shoulder, every single nerve ending set on fire.
With a guttural groan, I come hard, harder than I have in years, my cock pulsing so hard it almost aches, and it feels like dying and living at the same time—total blackout, then blinding, breathless relief.
I gasp, shuddering, and stay inside, her arms clinging to me like she’s anchoring us both.
We make this strangled, stunned sound together—equal parts laughter and disbelief. Sweat slicks both of us, messy and hot. My hands shake as I hold her face and kiss her again, softer this time, tasting the salt on her lips and the lingering smile neither of us can kill.
She leans her forehead into mine, chest heaving, lashes wet. “Jesus, Jonah. On the countertop?”
I grin, panting. “You started it.”
She snorts out a laugh. “You definitely finished it.”
We stay tangled, unmoving. My brain is a puddle. Her chest still heaves. Her thigh hooks around my hip, and there’s no air left in the room.
She’s looking at me with a dazed, satisfied smile and zero shame. Her hair is wild, lips swollen, freckles everywhere. Gorgeous. Absolutely lethal.
She laughs again and pulls me down for a gentler kiss—slow, sweet, lingering. For a second, I let myself believe this could last.
But then I remember: This is risky. This is dangerous. This could ruin everything.
And I don’t care. At least, not right now.
I help her off the counter. She’s still wobbly. Her underwear is halfway down one leg, her bra somewhere in a fruit basket. I hand her the sweater, but she just smirks, shakes her head, and struts to the fridge in nothing but her panties, grinning over her shoulder.
I toss the condom and follow, still half-hard, wanting more, every day, every night. I want this domestic chaos and the chance to wake up to her.
Which is batshit. Out of character. Not safe.
But that’s what I want.
“Still worried about the rule?” I ask. Because I’m not. The rule’s dead and buried, and I’m not sorry.
She grabs two Gatorades, tosses me one, then throws her clothes back on and sits on a stool, looking up at me.
I want her again—every hour of every day—but she’s already got this look on her face, a shift, like there’s something else she’s bracing to say.
“You want to talk about it, or should I just make you a sandwich?” Sometimes, if I make a joke, it buys me a few more minutes before everything goes to shit.
She smiles, but it’s forced. “We should talk,” she says, and the air in the room chills.
I don’t sit. I lean against the fridge, arms crossed, waiting for the blow.
But she just levels me with those brown eyes, so steady it hurts. “I got an offer to go back to TV,” she says. “Like, a real job. In Seattle. It’s executive producer, a real budget, the whole shebang.”
She gets the words out fast, like if she sprints through them they won’t stick. But they do.
“Holy shit.” It’s out loud before I can filter it. I set my Gatorade on the counter so I don’t crush it in my hand. “That’s—wow. That’s huge.”
She shrugs, picking at the torn label on her bottle. “It is. It’s what I’ve been working for, since, well, forever. They want me to start in two weeks.”
Twelve days from now. The countdown begins in my head, a clock ticking down to zero.
I want to tell her I’m thrilled for her, that this is the best news ever, but I’m not.
Not really. Selfish prick that I am, all I can think about is how empty the house will feel when she’s gone, how much harder mornings will be, how much Eli will miss her, how much I already do, and she’s still right here.
She must see the grimace on my face because she softens and scoots over, patting the stool beside her. I throw on my boxers and sit next to her, shoulder to shoulder, and try to remember how to be human.
“You gonna be okay?” she asks, voice low.
“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”
She laughs. “I’ll be fine. I’m a workaholic with separation anxiety. I’ll cry for a week, then start terrorizing my new staff. My question is about you and Eli.”
I take a long breath, thinking about what this will mean for Eli, and I hate that thought. But she has to go, and I don’t want to guilt her, so I say, “He’ll be fine.”
She bumps my leg with hers. “I won’t disappear on him. He can still video call me at bedtime to discuss the viability of constructing an electric jetpack.”
“Good.” I clear my throat, the word like sawdust in my mouth.
She leans her head back. “I talked to Maddie. She said she can take over through the rest of spring and summer, if that works for you.”
I process that. Maddie works at the Dickens’s Daycare, so she has a lot of experience. “That’s… actually not a terrible idea.”
Zoe nods. “Good.”
I avoid her gaze. “Good.”
We sit, breathing the same air, the silence thick.
I don’t want her to leave. Eli will be devastated.
But I know she has to go—this is her dream. I can’t stop her, and I’m not going to try. I just hope two weeks is enough to get this mess of feelings for her out of my system.
She stands, stretching, and pulls her sweater over her head. She looks back at me, one hand still on the fridge, hair wild, eyes soft. “You hungry? I can make a sandwich.”
I almost laugh, then realize she’s giving me an out, a way to reset the mood. I want her, obviously, but I also want this—the routine, the banter, the quiet company of someone who makes the house feel warm.
“Yeah.” I stand and pull my jeans back on. “But only if you make it with that weird vegan mayo you’re hiding in the fridge.”
She scoffs. “That stuff is a health miracle. You’re welcome in advance.”
She’s already moving, efficient and bossy, and I can’t help but watch her, every motion, every toss of her hair. I want to memorize all of it, store it in case I need to go cold turkey come January.
I grab a couple of plates and set them on the counter, right where we just completely wrecked each other. My back burns where her nails left marks, and I like that it hurts. I like the reminder.
She slaps a sandwich together, then slides it across the counter to me. “Eat up, Holt. You look like you’re about to faint.”
I take a big bite, mostly to keep my mouth busy. We eat standing up, side by side, elbows bumping, like it’s any other Tuesday. But it isn’t. Everything’s changed, and we both know it.
She takes two small bites of her sandwich, dabs a napkin to her mouth, then turns to face me.
“So, I won’t be good at keeping my hands off you now,” I admit, dropping down beside her.
She leans in, kisses my jaw, and smiles, all lazy and smug. “Good. Because I really, really like your hands.”
Zoe heads upstairs to shower, and I watch her disappear into the hallway, sweater draped over her shoulder.
I lean against the counter, heartbeat racing, and try to wrap my head around what just happened.