Chapter Thirty-Four #2
The first week was a minefield. He tiptoed around like a houseguest. Asked if he could open the fridge. Asked if he could order food to the house for us. Folded his blanket every morning and stacked it neatly on the edge of the bed like he was checking out of a motel.
By day three, I snapped. “You live here,” I said, standing in the doorway with my coffee. “You don’t have to act like a guest.”
He flashed that crooked grin that made my ribs ache. “Just trying not to mess it up.”
I wanted to tell him I’d been trying not to mess it up too—but that would have meant admitting how much he mattered. So I just rolled my eyes and handed him the extra mug I had poured for him.
Our mornings became a quiet rhythm. He used the last bit of cereal; I scowled and stole the bowl when he wasn’t looking.
Sunlight filtered through the blinds, painting stripes across his face.
The smell of caffeine and clean laundry filled the space between us, and for a few breaths, it felt like peace.
But the ghosts didn’t stay gone for long.
Sometimes I woke before him and found him sitting at the edge of the bed, cane leaning against his knee, staring at nothing. His shoulders were tense, jaw set.
“You ok?” I’d ask. I already knew the answer but I asked anyways.
“Yeah,” he’d say without looking at me. “Just… ”
I knew that tone. The one people used when silence felt like punishment. I reached for him, running my hand down his back. “Nightmares fucking suck.”
His laugh was dry but he lay back down and held me like I was the only thing keeping him afloat.
By the second week, we started bumping into each other’s habits.
He left his boots by the door—mud tracks and oil mixed on his soles and tracked across my rug.
My cute rug that changed with the seasons and holidays.
I bit my tongue, then spent an hour scrubbing when he wasn’t looking.
He insisted on fixing the leaky faucet himself; I came home to a half-disassembled sink and water pooling on the floor.
We argued over small, stupid things but underneath the frustration, there was laughter trying to find a way out.
Little by little, we started fitting together again.
He’d started using my bathroom like it was his own, which shouldn’t have bothered me, except one morning he walked out with steam curling around him and nothing but a towel slung low on his hips.
I was sitting on the bed, cup of coffee in one hand and an invoice in the other. I looked up at him, forgot how to breathe, and brought the invoice to my lips like I was going to drink it. I hadn’t realized what I had done until he gave me a crooked grin.
He was still thinner than I remembered, scars fading but not gone, his hair damp and curling at the edges. But it wasn’t the body that stopped me—it was the look on his face when he realized I was staring. A flicker of the boy he used to be, the cockiness. The sexy smirk.
“What?” he said, voice still rough from sleep.
“Nothing,” I muttered, eyes definitely not on the towel. “Just…you missed a spot.”
He chuckled, winking at me. “Wanna help me get it?”
I sputtered, then pretended to be very interested in my mug while my pulse did stupid things.
He worked part-time at the garage, came home smelling like motor oil and exhaustion. I worked late on Willows Harbor paperwork. We orbited each other—close enough to touch, cautious enough not to burn.
Sometimes, when I was typing at my desk, I felt his eyes on me. Not in a way that trapped me—just quiet awe. Like he couldn’t quite believe I was real.
One night he leaned against the doorframe, watching me finish a donor call. “You know you’re amazing, right?”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“The way you walk into a room and just…own it.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Makes the rest of us look like we’re standing still.”
“You flirting with me, Morgan?” I teased.
“You would know if I was,” he said, voice low. “But no. It’s just the truth.”
My cheeks warmed. I typed another line I wouldn’t remember later.
He walked off down the hallway and I tried to pay attention to the rest of the meeting.
But my body was remembering what it was like to want and I had a feeling we were both happily marching to the edge of a cliff.
So, the question wasn’t what if… but when.
? Jackson ?
The soft glow of the television painted shifting blue shadows across Holly’s face.
Some forgettable comedy movie played on, scenes I had long since ceased to pay attention to.
A month. A month of shared coffee, of folded laundry, of her scent on my pillow.
A month of a peace so profound it felt like a held breath.
A month of watching her move through our shared space, a ghost of the girl I’d left, now a woman whose every curve and sigh was a geography I was desperate to map.
My hand, resting on the couch cushion between us, twitched.
The domestic rhythm was a sweet torture.
All I could think about was our last night under the stars.
The feel of her under me, her breathy little moans.
A memory worn smooth by ages of lonely, desperate recollection.
Now, the reality of her was here. The vanilla-and-cinnamon scent of her skin.
The soft sound of her breathing. The way her lower lip caught between her teeth when she was concentrating on whatever task was at hand.
The craving was a physical ache, a wire pulled taut from my sternum to my groin.
I couldn’t wait another second. I turned, the leather of the couch creaking under me.
She glanced over, a small, curious smile on her lips.
That curiosity turned to the old, familiar fire when she saw the look on my face.
An unspoken challenge. My expression must have been raw, stripped bare.
I saw the flicker of understanding in her eyes, then the shadow of old fear.
“Can I help you, Marine?”
I didn’t speak. Words were sand in my mouth.
I just reached for her, my hand cradling the back of her neck, my thumb stroking the frantic pulse under her jaw.
I leaned in, stopping a breath away. Letting her see the want, the near-violent need, before I gave in to it.
My mouth found hers. It wasn’t a gentle kiss.
It was a claiming. A release of over a year’s worth of hunger.
She gasped against my lips, her hands flying up to my shoulders, not pushing away, but clutching.
Anchoring. I tasted the wine she’d had with dinner, the unique, sweet flavor that was just her.
A groan tore from my chest, and I deepened the kiss, my tongue sweeping into her mouth, learning her all over again.
When I broke for air, we were both panting. Her eyes were wide, dark pools in the dim light. “Holly,” I rasped, my voice unrecognizable. “I need…I need to taste you. I need to hear you. I need everything.”
I saw the war in her eyes. The history. The man who’d taken something from her that I’d spent years trying to help her rebuild. My heart hammered against my ribs. I should stop. I should pull back.
But then she spoke, her voice trembling but clear. “I want to know what it’s like,” she whispered. “To be craved like that. Don’t be gentle, Jackson. Not tonight. Use me. Show me what it’s like to be yours so completely it burns.”
Her words were a detonation. Any last shred of hesitation incinerated.
I stood, pulling her up with me, and in one motion, swept her into my arms. My damn leg protested but I paid it no mind.
She let out a small, surprised sound, her arms looping around my neck.
I carried her the short distance to our bedroom, the movie’s soundtrack fading into meaningless noise.
I laid her on the bed, following her down, my body covering hers.
My mouth was everywhere. Trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down her throat, nipping at her collarbone, laving the swell of her breasts above her t-shirt.
I pulled the soft cotton up and over her head, tossing it aside.
Her bra followed. I took one tight, pink nipple into my mouth, sucking hard, my tongue circling the peak.
She cried out, her back arching off the mattress, her fingers tangling in my hair.
“If you need to stop,” I growled against her damp skin, my hand sliding down her stomach to the waistband of her sleep shorts. “Any second. Just say the word. Any word. And I stop. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” she breathed, her hips lifting to help me peel the shorts and her panties down her legs. “I’m good. Promise. Show me what you’ve got.”
God, I had missed her. That wicked tongue, that sharp mind.
I kissed my way down her quivering stomach, over the gentle curve of her hip, along the sensitive skin of her inner thigh.
Her scent, musky and sweet, filled my senses.
I’d dreamed of this. I settled between her legs, my hands spreading her wide for me.
She was already glistening, flushed and beautiful.
I didn’t tease. I lowered my mouth and licked a long, slow stripe from her entrance to her clit.
Her whole body jerked. A sharp, broken moan ripped from her throat.
Music. I did it again, flattening my tongue, savoring her taste—tangy, addictive, Holly.
I found her clit with the tip of my tongue and circled it, slowly, deliberately.
Her thighs trembled against my ears. Her hands fisted in the sheets.
“Jackson… oh, god…”
I built her up with relentless focus. My tongue flicked and pressed, my lips sucked.
I slid two fingers inside her, curling them, finding that spot that made her shriek.
Her hips began to buck in a ragged rhythm, her breathing coming in sharp, desperate gasps.
I could feel her tightening around my fingers, her body coiling like a spring.
She was close. So close. I pulled my mouth away.