Chapter 5 – Nicola
I'm still pressed against Jason's chest, heart hammering, the taste of him lingering on my lips from that kiss. His hands span my waist, thumbs brushing the bare skin where my borrowed shirt has ridden up, and every nerve ending I possess is screaming at me to close the distance again.
So I do.
I rise on my toes and kiss him, harder this time, more demanding. His response is immediate, a low sound in his chest that reverberates through me as his hands tighten on my waist, pulling me flush against him.
I feel every inch of him: the hard planes of muscle, the heat radiating through his flannel, the unmistakable evidence of his desire pressing against my belly.
I want this. I want him.
"Nicola." My name comes out rough, strained, like he's barely holding himself together. He pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes dark and fierce and searching. "Tell me you're sure."
I meet his gaze head-on. "I'm sure."
"If you change your mind—"
"I won't." I slide my hands up his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat beneath my palms. "I want you, Jason. I want this."
Something in his expression shifts, possessive and hungry and almost reverent all at once. Then he's kissing me again, claiming my mouth like he's claiming all of me. His hands roam, spanning my ribs, cupping my hips, sliding up my back.
Everywhere he touches, I burn.
He walks me backward toward the bedroom, never breaking the kiss, guiding me with sure hands and steady pressure. My spine meets the doorframe and he presses into me, pinning me there with his weight.
The solid wood behind me, the solid muscle in front—I'm caught between them, breathless, and it feels like exactly where I want to be.
His mouth leaves mine to trail down my neck, teeth scraping lightly over my pulse. I gasp, head falling back against the frame, and feel his lips curve into a smile against my throat.
"Sensitive," he murmurs, more observation than question.
"Yes." The word comes out breathy, desperate.
He does it again, that perfect pressure of teeth and tongue, and my knees nearly buckle.
His hands slide down to cup my ass, lifting me slightly, and I wrap my legs around his waist on instinct.
He carries me the rest of the way to the bed like I weigh nothing, lowering me onto the mattress with a care that contrasts sharply with the hunger in his eyes.
The firelight from the main room spills through the open door, casting flickering shadows across his face as he stands over me. He's backlit, all broad shoulders and controlled power, and for a moment I just stare, memorizing the sight of him.
"You're beautiful," he says, voice low and certain.
Heat floods my face, my chest, pooling low in my belly. I've been told I'm too much for so long that hearing the opposite from him feels like absolution. Like reclamation.
He kneels in front of me, hands settling on my thighs, and slowly peels off my socks.
The gesture is oddly intimate, like he's unwrapping something precious.
His palms slide back up my calves, over my knees, higher, thumbs tracing the inner seam of my thighs through the sweatpants.
The pressure is light but deliberate, and I can feel the heat of his hands through the fabric.
"Lift," he murmurs, fingers hooking into the waistband.
I do, and he pulls the sweatpants off in one smooth motion, leaving me in just the thermal shirt and underwear. The cool air makes me shiver, but his warm hands slide back up my legs immediately, parting them gently so he can step between.
"Cold?" he asks, eyes tracking over me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
"No." My voice is breathless. "Not even a little."
His mouth curves and then he's pulling his own shirt off, revealing the scarred, muscled expanse of his chest and shoulders.
I reach out without thinking, tracing the lines of old damage with my fingertips.
A healed break along his collarbone. Scar tissue radiating from his ribs.
The evidence of violence survived, worn into his skin like a map of pain.
He goes still under my touch, watching me with an intensity that makes my pulse skip.
"You're sure?" he asks again, softer this time. Vulnerable in a way that cracks something open in my chest.
I answer by pulling him down to me.
He comes willingly, covering me with his weight, and the feel of skin on skin is almost overwhelming. He's so warm, so solid, and I arch into him instinctively, craving more contact, more heat, more everything.
His mouth finds mine again, and this kiss is slower, deeper, edged with a promise that makes my toes curl.
His hands slide under the thermal shirt, palms rough against the soft skin of my belly. He pauses there, fingers splayed wide, like he's savoring the give of my flesh. Then higher, over my ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts.
I gasp into his mouth and he makes that sound again, low and satisfied, before cupping me fully. His thumbs brush over sensitive peaks and I arch harder, pressing into his touch.
He strips the shirt off me in one swift motion, then sits back on his heels, just looking.
I fight the urge to cover myself. Force myself to stay still, to let him see. His gaze is heavy, deliberate, tracking over every curve, every soft place. I feel exposed and vulnerable and wanted all at once.
Then his hands are on me again, and I stop thinking entirely.
He maps me with his hands first. Palms sliding over my shoulders, down my arms, across my belly. Fingers tracing the flare of my hips, the dimples at the small of my back, the curve of my thighs.
Then his mouth follows the same path. Lips and teeth and tongue working down my throat, across my collarbone, lower. He takes his time with my breasts—sucking, biting gently, soothing with his tongue until I'm writhing beneath him, hands fisted in his hair, pulling him closer.
"Jason—" His name breaks on a gasp.
"I know." His voice is strained, muffled against my skin. "I've got you."
He moves lower, kissing a trail down my belly, and I feel his fingers hook into my underwear. He pauses, looking up at me, waiting for permission. I nod, breathless, and he pulls them off slowly, exposing me completely.
The way he looks at me then—like I'm something holy and profane at the same time—makes heat flood through me. He presses a kiss to the inside of my knee, then higher, working his way up my thigh. My breath catches, anticipation coiling tight in my belly.
When his mouth finally reaches where I need him most, I cry out, hips jerking off the bed.
He pins me down with one forearm across my hips, holding me steady as he works me with his tongue, slow and thorough and devastating.
The pressure builds impossibly fast, pleasure spiraling higher until I'm gasping his name, fingers twisted in the sheets.
"Not yet," he murmurs against me, pulling back just enough to let the sensation ebb. "I want to feel you come around me."
The promise in those words makes me shudder.
He stands, strips off the rest of his clothes, and I finally see all of him. He's big—everywhere—all muscle and scars and raw masculine power. My breath catches, and he must see something in my expression because he pauses.
"We'll go slow," he says, voice rough but certain. "You set the pace."
He settles between my thighs again, bracing himself on his forearms, caging me in. His weight is substantial but not crushing, and the heat of his skin against mine is almost unbearable. He kisses me again as his hand slides between us, fingers finding me slick and ready.
"God, Nicola," he breathes against my mouth. "You're—"
Whatever he was going to say dissolves into a groan as I reach down and wrap my hand around him. He's hard and hot and impossibly thick, and a flutter of nerves mixed with anticipation makes my pulse spike.
He must feel me tense because he covers my hand with his, guiding me. "Tell me if it's too much," he says, forehead pressed to mine. "Tell me if you need me to stop."
"Don't stop," I breathe. "Please don't stop."
He positions himself, the blunt head of him pressing against me, and then he's pushing forward slowly, giving me time to adjust.
The stretch is intense, almost overwhelming, pleasure and pressure blurring together until I can't tell where one ends and the other begins. I gasp against his shoulder, nails digging into his back.
He stills immediately, every muscle locked. "Okay?"
"Yes." I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper despite the burn. "Yes. Keep going."
He does, sinking into me inch by inch until he's fully seated. We both freeze, breathing hard, letting the sensation settle. I feel full, stretched around him, and when he shifts even slightly, sparks shoot up my spine.
"Fuck," he grits out, voice strained. "You feel—"
He doesn't finish. Just lowers his forehead to mine, breathing through the control it's taking not to move.
I shift my hips experimentally, testing the sensation, and he groans—a rough, desperate sound that makes heat pool low in my belly. I do it again, deliberately this time, and feel him shudder above me.
"Nicola—"
"Move," I whisper. "Please, Jason. I need—"
He does. Pulling back slowly, almost all the way out, then pushing back in with a controlled thrust that makes my eyes roll back.
He sets a rhythm—slow and deep and devastatingly thorough—and I can feel every inch of him, every ridge and vein, the drag of him against sensitive places that make me gasp and arch.
His mouth finds mine again, swallowing my sounds as he picks up the pace. The bed creaks beneath us, sheets rustling, and the sounds are almost as intoxicating as the sensations—proof that this is real, that he's here, that I'm not alone.
But slow isn't enough. I need more, need him unleashed, need to know what it feels like when he stops holding back.
"More," I manage between kisses. "Jason, please—more."