Chapter 6 #2
"Not well enough. I should have said more. Should have made him acknowledge what an ass he was being."
"You said plenty." I turn to face him fully. "Why do you care so much what Stuart says about me?"
"Because you deserve better. And because I see how you look at him, even when he's being an idiot."
"How do I look at him?"
"Like he's a complicated puzzle you're determined to solve. Like his approval matters more than it should." He pauses, vulnerability crossing his features. "You look at me differently."
"How do I look at you?"
"Like I might be fun but not substantial. Like I'm dessert, not the main course. The entertaining distraction, not the real thing."
The accuracy stings because there's truth in it. "That's not—"
"It's okay. I've been dessert my whole life. The fun one, the easy one, the one people enjoy but don't take seriously." He shifts closer, his thigh pressing against mine. "But I want you to know there's more to me than just the camera-ready smile."
"I know that."
"Do you?" His hand finds mine, fingers interlacing. "Ask me something real. Something you actually want to know about me."
I consider my words carefully. "Tell me about your parents."
His jaw tightens slightly, pain flashing in his eyes. "They’re dead. Car accident when I was twenty-two. They were driving to one of my college football games in bad weather. Hit black ice."
"Jonathan—"
"I quit football after that. Couldn't stand being on the field knowing they died trying to watch me play. Started the fitness channel as a distraction, something to fill the hours, and it just... grew into this empire I never planned."
"Is that why you live with Stuart and Dane?"
"Partly. They're the only family I have left. They saved me after my parents died, gave me purpose when I was drowning." He squeezes my hand. "Your turn. Tell me about the ex. Really tell me."
I pull back instinctively, but he doesn't let go of my hand.
"You don't have to," he says quickly. "But I'd like to understand what happened to you."
So I tell him. About how Chad slowly eroded my confidence, how he convinced me to give up my practice, how he isolated me from friends, controlled our finances, made me feel like I was nothing without him.
How he'd criticize my body, my choices, my dreams until I believed I was lucky he stayed with me at all.
"How long did it go on?" Jonathan asks, his voice tight with barely controlled anger.
"Three years. Three years of getting smaller and smaller until I almost disappeared entirely."
"What made you leave?"
"I found out he was cheating. Had been the whole time with multiple women.
When I confronted him, he said I should be grateful he kept me around at all, that I was too boring to be anyone's only choice.
" I laugh bitterly. "That's when I realized I'd rather be alone and broke than with someone who made me feel worthless. "
Jonathan's free hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing away a tear I didn't realize had fallen. "You're not worthless. You're brilliant and strong and so fucking beautiful."
"Jonathan—"
"I know about you and Stuart," he says quietly. "That night at the hotel. And I know about you and Dane, the kiss in the library."
I freeze, my heart racing. "How—"
"Stuart can't hide his emotions as well as he thinks, and Dane told me. We don't keep secrets from each other. Never have."
"Are you angry?"
"No." He moves closer, his hand still cupping my face. "Intrigued, maybe. Curious about what you see in them. Wondering if maybe you need all of us in different ways."
"This is crazy."
"Maybe. But I haven't felt this drawn to someone in years." He reaches up and traces my bottom lip with his thumb, and I can't help the small gasp that escapes from me. "Tell me to leave and I will. Tell me this is too complicated, and I'll go back to being just your client."
Instead of answering, I kiss him. He kisses like he does everything else—with enthusiasm and joy, but also with surprising skill.
His tongue traces my lips, seeking entry, and when I grant it, he groans into my mouth.
The kiss deepens, becomes hungrier, his hands tangling in my hair to angle my head exactly how he wants it.
He pulls me onto his lap without breaking the kiss, and I can feel how much he wants this through his jeans, hard and insistent against me. My skirt rides up as I straddle him, and his hands find my thighs, squeezing possessively.
"Fuck, you feel perfect," he breathes against my mouth.
When we break for air, his eyes are dark with desire, pupils blown wide.
"Bedroom?" he asks, voice rough.
I lead him upstairs, grateful Lottie's room is at the opposite end of the house. The moment my bedroom door closes, Jonathan's hands are on me again.
"You're sure?" he asks, even as his hands slide under my blouse.
"Yes. God, yes."
He undresses me slowly, taking time to appreciate every inch of exposed skin. When he discovers the white lace lingerie I’m wearing, he groans.
"You're trying to kill me," he says, tracing the edge of my bra with one finger. "This is... fuck, Claire."
His mouth follows his hands, kissing along my collarbone, down between my breasts, across my stomach. Each kiss is deliberate, purposeful, building heat that radiates through my body.
When he unhooks my bra, he spends long minutes worshipping my breasts, learning exactly how to touch me to make me gasp and arch against him.
He's patient, taking time to discover that I'm more sensitive on the left, that gentle teeth make me moan, that circling slowly drives me wilder than direct touch.
"So responsive," he murmurs against my skin. "So perfect. I could do this for hours."
He lays me on the bed like I'm something precious, then strips quickly. His body is a work of art—all defined muscles and golden skin. Where Stuart was lean and powerful, Jonathan is built broader, stronger, like he could protect me from anything that ever came my way.
He explores my body like he's memorizing it, finding sensitive spots I didn't know existed—the inside of my elbow, the spot where my hip meets my thigh, the delicate skin behind my knees. By the time his mouth finally finds my center, I'm already trembling with need.
"Please," I gasp. "I need—"
"I know what you need."
He's creative and attentive, alternating techniques until he finds exactly what makes me fall apart.
His tongue circles my clit while his fingers explore, finding that perfect spot inside that makes me see stars.
He doesn't rush, doesn't push, just steadily builds me higher until I'm begging incoherently.
When I come, it feels so fucking good it takes my breath away. He works me through it, then starts building me up again immediately.
"Jonathan, I can't—"
"You can, Claire. Show me how much you can take."
The second orgasm hits even harder, leaving me boneless and gasping. He kisses his way back up my body, settling between my thighs, the weight of him pressing me into the mattress in the most delicious way.
"Condom?" he asks, even though he's clearly struggling for control.
I reach for my nightstand, grateful I'd optimistically bought a box last week. He rolls it on, then pauses, looking down at me with something close to wonder.
"Do you have any idea how incredible you are?" he asks.
He enters me slowly, watching my face for any discomfort. The stretch is perfect, filling me completely. When he's fully inside me, we both pause, adjusting to the sensation.
"Jesus Christ," he breathes. "It’s like you were made for me."
He starts to move, long, deep strokes that have me clinging to his shoulders.
"That's it," he encourages when he hits a particularly good spot and I moan. "Take what you need. Use me however you want."
I wrap my legs around him, changing the angle, and we both moan at the sensation. He picks up the pace, one hand between us to circle my clit.
"One more," he says, his control finally starting to slip. "Give me one more. Want to feel you come around my cock."
When I shatter for the third time, he follows immediately, as he buries himself deep, his whole body shuddering with the force of his release.
We collapse together, sweaty and satisfied. He gathers me against his body, pressing kisses to my hair, my forehead, anywhere he can reach.
"Stay," I say before I can stop myself.
"As long as you'll let me."
We lie in silence, his fingers tracing circles on my bare shoulder, before he speaks again.
"Just so you know, it doesn't bother me," he says quietly. "You with Stuart and Dane. We've shared before, Dane and I."
I pull back to look at him. "Dane mentioned that."
"Just with one woman. Stuart never participated—said he doesn't share.
But Dane and I discovered we could appreciate the same woman differently without jealousy.
We're secure enough in ourselves and our friendship to know that sharing doesn't diminish what we each offer.
" He traces patterns on my shoulder. "You deserve to have every single one of your needs met. "
"That's not how relationships work."
"Maybe it's time to try something different." His hand cups my face gently. "You light up differently with each of us.”
"I do," I admit. "But Stuart—"
"Stuart needs to decide what he wants more—his rigid control or you." He kisses me gently. "But that's tomorrow's problem. Tonight, you're mine, and I plan to worship every inch of you again before morning."
He proceeds to make good on that promise, showing me with his hands and mouth and body exactly how cherished I am. And for tonight, I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, I can have this—all of this—without everything falling apart.