Chapter 17
For the next fifteen minutes, that’s exactly what happens.
Steam curling around us, Jasper’s hands roaming every inch of my body, covering me in soap and heat and something else I can’t even name.
A kind of dizzy euphoria that makes me feel like I’m dreaming.
He washes my hair, and then kisses me – hard, almost angry about it – after I shape the foam on his head into a ridiculous mohawk. And after all that, he starts kissing me again and doesn’t stop. Not until we’re already in the bedroom, on the bed, still damp from the shower, and he’s inside me.
It’s slow this time. Quiet. Soft in a way that feels nothing like the madness from last night.
But, like I told you, this isn’t a good thing.
It’s a problem.
Every time he does this… Every time he’s calm, and he kisses me calmly, and touches me calmly, I start thinking that we’re completely aware of what we are doing.
If we’re not tearing each other’s clothes off like wild animals, then we’re conscious. Fully capable of choosing.
And still we chose this.
We chose showering together.
We chose falling asleep together under a warm comforter in the middle of the afternoon.
Me and him.
And, if I’m being honest, that make no sense at all.
It makes even less sense now that I wake to the sound of Mila’s voice, followed by a series of knocks on a door. Because if I can’t explain any of this to myself, how am I supposed to explain it to her?
I jolt upright, waking Jasper with the sudden movement. He opens his eyes and shifts under the sheets, half-asleep. The curtains are pulled shut, the AC is humming, and I’m wearing one of his shirts because my clothes are still in the bathroom where we left them before the shower.
There is absolutely no way to explain this.
“Mila’s knocking on my door!” I whisper, panic strangling the words in my throat.
Jasper sits up immediately, the comforter falling back and revealing him in nothing but his underwear. Black boxers. Low. Very, very low.
God, I can’t even begin to think about how sexy this man is!
But it’s getting harder and harder not to think about it, considering how often I’ve been seeing him like this lately, so now his body is practically printed in permanent ink inside my mind.
I could trace every detail without even looking.
The muscles, the hair, the tiny freckle at the edge of his nose, the scar on his right shoulder that I’ve kissed, bitten, and watched rise and fall more times than I can count.
Then Mila knocks again, and I’m snapped out of my horny daydream, thank God.
I run toward the bathroom to escape through the way we came, but someone must have gone in while we were asleep, because the door is locked from the inside.
Shit.
I sprint back to the middle of the room, whispering in panic just like before, “You need to do something before she opens my door and realizes I’m not in there!”
Jasper just nods, impatient, motioning for me to hide behind his door. That way he can open it without Mila seeing me.
He stomps to the door, heavy steps, scowl in place, and practically rips the handle off when he turns it. His voice comes out rough, half fury, half hangover, “What the hell, Camila?”
Someone give this man an Oscar.
“I’m trying to talk to Julie!” she fires back immediately.
“Do you need to wake up the entire house to do that?”
“It’s five in the afternoon, Jasper!”
“Well, maybe she’s exhausted after babysitting a bunch of drunks last night.”
I definitely wasn’t babysitting anyone. I was worse than all of them combined. But I get where he’s going with this. “Maybe she needed sleep after staying up until four in the morning putting ice on the black eye you got after starting a fight over guacamole!”
Mila deflates. I can see her through the tiny crack between the door and the frame.
Someone recruit this man for war as well. I don't know what they're waiting for.
“Maybe she’s dead!” he snaps. “If there’s a God, let her be dead!”
“You’re despicable!” Mila yells back.
“I know! And the last thing this despicable man wants is to hear you and Julie chitchatting outside my door. So go back to where you came from, send her a text, like a normal person would do, and wait for her to respond. I’m fucking hungover!”
Mila huffs. Rolls her eyes. Checks her phone. Huffs again.
She’s clearly deciding between calling me – she’ll find my phone in the bathroom, which is not ideal, but anything is better than this – and yelling for Robbie.
And because Jasper keeps holding the door with the same terrifying expression as before, Mila huffs one last time and stomps back toward the stairs like a pouty little kid.
Only when she’s out of sight that he slams the door shut, loud enough to scare her a bit more.
Me? I’m laughing like an idiot.
The man literally said he hoped I was dead, and here I am, over the moon about it.
“What are you laughing at?” he growls. “You think I’m joking?”
I nod with a smug little grin, and suddenly I’m laughing all over again.
We must both be insane, because when he reacts to my laughter, Jasper lets out this low, throaty sound that vibrates from his chest and sends my heart into a sprint.
“You’re a problem,” he says, stepping closer, crowding me against the wall.
“Me?”
He nods, eyes locked on mine, “The worst kind of problem.”
“Why?”
One of his hands plants on the wall beside me. The other slides up my thigh, disappearing under the hem of the shirt – his shirt – and settling on my waist.
“Because you’re the kind of problem I’m not sure I want to get rid of.”
On the outside, I manage to stay composed.
On the inside, I’m one breath away from exploding, because the butterflies in my stomach have multiplied into full-blown chaos, swirling through my chest, my core, everywhere.
I feel like a live wire wrapped in butterfly wings or whatever.
“You’ll have to get rid of me anyway,” I say. Maybe I deserve an Oscar too.
“Will I?” Jasper drags his hand from my waist to my hip, exactly where the elastic of my underwear would be if I were wearing any.
I’m not. Just his shirt. Nothing else.
“You will,” I say. “When this trip’s over and everything goes back to normal.”
The words are serious, but my tone is pure teasing.
Partly because I don’t want to dump any unexpected feelings into the moment.
It’s not time to mourn the future, it’s time to enjoy the present.
And a little provocation always gets us exactly where I want us to be.
To our insanely good and wild make out sessions, I mean.
“This is just a vacation fling, after all. We can’t do this forever, you know.”
“Keep going,” he mutters, with a frustrated grin. “Keep looking at me with that little bratty face. Keep looking at me like that and see what happens. I’ll take you home, tied up in my room and never let you leave.”
And here I am, giggling again.
“Jasper Hassmann, that’s literally kidnapping.”
“And who are you gonna complain to, Julie? You won’t even manage to talk with my cock shoved way deep inside your sweet pussy the whole time.”
He slides his hand from my hip to my butt, pressing hard against my skin. I don’t argue.
I sigh. A long, helpless sound that makes it very clear he’s right. If I can’t protest when he’s got a hand on my ass, imagine if he’s doing something else.
His other hand cups my face with that rough, ungentle touch I crave, and Jasper leans in to kiss me.
Slow. Wet. Firm.
And besides the image of his naked body, there’s something else carving fast access pathways into my brain: his kisses. I know all of them by now.
This one is to say goodbye.
He pulls back, giving me space to walk away. When I don’t move, he smirks.
“Go. Before I change my mind and tie you up right here.”
“You can tie me up later if you want,” I say, finally finding the strength to peel myself off him and rush toward the door.
Not without getting a smack on the ass first (thankfully on the cheek without bruises) and hearing him say, “Crazy pervert.”