Chapter 11 - Jake
JAKE
Collision
The kiss is a collision.
Her mouth crashes into mine, and God—it feels good.
My hands, which were gripping her shoulders in panic seconds ago, slide up to her jaw. I’m still shaking, the adrenaline from pulling her out of the water mutating into something darker. Hotter.
My brain is a static-filled mess of scared, confused, angry, turned on. I’m angry that she scared me. I’m terrified of how much I cared. And I’m so goddamn turned on that I can’t think straight.
Her lips are warm and soft and demanding, and she tastes like chlorine and breath and something sweet.
I groan into her mouth, the sound vibrating through both of us, and I kiss her back with everything I have.
I’m not being careful. I’m not being responsible.
Her body presses against mine, slick and warm from the water. Her skin slides beneath my hands, and I realize with a sharp, electric jolt how little separates us.
She’s wearing a simple white bra and matching briefs, both soaked through, the fabric clinging to her like it was made for this moment. Every curve is outlined. Every breath she takes presses her closer.
I’m still in my T-shirt. My sweatpants are heavy with water, dragging against my legs. Her hands clutch the fabric at my waist, fingers curling like she needs something solid to hold onto.
Her mouth opens under mine and my tongue brushes hers.
My heart pounds so hard it hurts.
My hands slide up her back, water dripping from her skin as my fingers trace the curve of her spine. She arches into me, and the movement is instinctive, unconscious.
I break the kiss for a second, just long enough to breathe.
Her lips are swollen. Her eyes dark and wide and searching.
“What are you doing?” I ask, voice rough and wrecked.
Her hands tighten on me. “I don’t know.”
That should be my cue to stop.
Instead, I kiss her again.
Because I don’t know either.
We stumble backward until her shoulders hit the wall beside the pool.
The concrete is cold and damp, but neither of us cares. I cage her there with my body, one hand planted flat beside her head, the other still tangled in her hair.
Water drips from my clothes, pooling at our feet.
My fingers brush the edge of her underwear, and I pause.
"Jake," she gasps when we break apart, and her pupils are blown wide, swallowing all that blue until her eyes look almost black. "Jake, please—"
"What do you want?" The words come out half-question, half-growl.
She answers by pulling me back to her. Her hands find my chest, clutching at my soaked T-shirt, and I can feel the desperation in her grip.
I'm hard—achingly, painfully hard—and when her hip brushes against my cock through my wet pants, I hiss against her mouth.
"Feel what you do to me." I grind against her, just once, letting her feel the rigid length of me. "You feel that?"
"Yes." Her voice is barely a whisper. "God, yes."
I yank my shirt over my head and toss it somewhere behind me
Then my mouth is on hers again. Hungry. Consuming.
She runs her hands over my bare chest like she’s trying to memorize every inch of me.
“Fuck, Talia.” My voice is rough against her lips. “Can I touch you? I want to make you come again like I did last time. Do you remember?”
“I remember.” Her breath shudders. “Touch me.”
I reach between us, my fingers finding the soaked fabric of her underwear. She’s warm there. Warmer than the pool could ever explain.
When I push the fabric aside, I find slick, swollen flesh.
She cries out as my fingers slide through her folds, her head falling back against the wall.
“You’re so fucking wet,” I groan against her throat. “This all for me?”
“All for you.” She’s trembling now, her fingers digging into my shoulders. “Only you.”
I find her entrance and press two fingers inside. She’s tight. Even tighter than I remember. Her body clenches around me like it doesn’t want to let go.
The sounds she makes wreck me. Soft gasps. Broken moans. Each one echoing off the basement walls and straight into my bloodstream.
“More,” she begs, and I give her more. I fuck her with my fingers until she’s writhing against my hand, until her legs start to shake and I have to hold her upright with my other arm.
“Need to be inside you.” My voice is wrecked. Barely recognizable. “Need it now.”
“Yes.” Her hands fumble with my wet sweatpants, clumsy with urgency. “Please, Jake—please—”
I help her, shoving them down just far enough to free myself. My cock springs free, hard and leaking, and when it brushes her bare thigh, we both inhale sharply.
I lift her easily. She’s so small in my hands. So perfect. Her legs wrap around my waist instantly.
“Ready?” I position myself at her entrance, the head of my cock pressing against her opening.
She answers by dragging me into a searing kiss.
I thrust inside.
The pleasure is blinding.
Her pussy grips me like a vice. Hot. Slick. Tight enough that I have to go still, teeth clenched, fighting the instinct to lose control immediately.
She clenches around me again, and my vision goes white at the edges.
“Oh my God.” Her nails dig into my shoulders. “You’re so—fuck—you feel so good—”
I pull back and drive forward again. The sound is obscene. Wet. Slick. Our bodies meeting again and again, her arousal coating my cock, dripping down to my balls.
I fuck her against the wall.
There's nothing gentle about it. I piston into her with deep, relentless strokes, each thrust driving her harder against the concrete.
Her moans bounce off the walls, filling the basement, and I swallow them with my mouth on hers.
"This what you wanted?" I grunt between kisses. "Wanted me to fuck you like this?"
"Yes—God—yes—"
I shift my angle, lifting her higher, and the next thrust hits something inside her that makes her scream. Her entire body seizes, her pussy clamping down on my cock so hard I see stars.
"Right there?" I do it again, deliberately aiming for that spot. "That where you need me?"
"Jake—" She's crying now, tears mixing with the water still on her face, and I know they're tears of pleasure. "I'm close—I'm so close—"
"Come for me." I fuck her faster, harder, chasing my own release right alongside hers. "Come on my cock, Talia. Let me feel you."
She shatters.
Her orgasm tears through her like a wave, her whole body shaking as she comes.
I feel her pussy ripple around me, squeezing and releasing in rhythmic pulses, and the sensation drags me over the edge with her.
"Talia—" I bury my face in her neck and groan her name as I spill inside her.
Hot pulses of cum flood her pussy, filling her up, and I can feel the mess we're making—the mix of my release and hers dripping down between us.
Her fingers loosen in my hair. Her forehead rests against my shoulder, her entire body relaxed in a way I’ve never seen before.
She trusts me, I realize.
The thought makes something inside me ache.
Carefully, gently, I slide my hands lower and ease her down until her feet touch the tile.
She sways.
Instinct takes over immediately. I tighten my grip, steadying her before she can even stumble.
Neither of us speaks.
I let go first.
Because if I don’t create distance now, I might not let her go again.
She wraps her arms around herself, suddenly cold.
I turn away quickly, grabbing the nearest towel from the rack on the wall. My hands feel strange. Unsteady. Like they don’t belong to me.
I bring the towel back and hold it out to her without looking directly at her face.
She takes it slowly.
“Thanks,” she whispers.
Her voice is hoarse.
I nod once and still can’t look at her.
I grab another towel for myself, dragging it roughly through my hair, buying time. Buying distance.
When I glance up again, she’s shivering.
The adrenaline is gone now. Reality is back.
Without thinking, I step closer again.
She looks up at me, uncertain.
I hesitate for half a second, then lift my own towel and drape it over her shoulders, wrapping it tightly around her.
“You’ll get sick,” I say, forcing my voice into something practical. Something safe. “Dry off.”
It comes out quieter than I expect. Softer.
She nods. “Okay.”
We stand there for another second.
Too close. Too aware. Too everything.
I step back.
Distance. I need distance.
She walks slowly to one of the lounge chairs and lowers herself onto it, wrapping both towels tighter around her body. Her movements are slower now, like her mind hasn’t fully caught up with her body.
I sit down beside her. The silence stretches between us.
She lets out a nervous laugh.
I glance at her. “What?”
She shakes her head, staring at her hands. “Nothing.”
I wait.
She exhales. “This is insane.”
I let out a breath through my nose. “Yeah.”
Neither of us argues.
Because there’s no version of reality where this isn’t insane.
She looks over at me then.
Really looks.
Her hair is damp, clinging to her shoulders. Her lips are swollen. Her cheeks flushed.
She looks like someone I shouldn’t touch again.
And someone I don’t trust myself to stay away from.
“This complicates things,” I mutter.
Her mouth curves faintly. “Everything was already complicated.”
I huff out something that might almost be a laugh.
Her smile grows just a fraction.
Then fades. Her eyes drop. Sadness settles over her like a shadow.
My chest tightens before I can stop it.
“You okay?” I ask.
She’s quiet for a moment.
Then she shakes her head.
“No.” She stares at the floor. “We’re in such a mess.”
Her fingers twist tighter in the towel.
“I keep thinking about my dad finding out.”
Her voice trembles. “I don’t know how we’ll be able to hide this from him. And if he finds out we got married on a whim in Vegas… it’ll be really bad.”
My jaw tightens.
Because I know exactly how Coach Petrov looks at people who disappoint him.
“You’re not the only one who made that choice,” I say quietly.
She looks up at me.
Her eyes search my face like she’s trying to find something there. Something I’m not sure how to give her.
“He’s going to hate me,” she whispers.
“No,” I reply automatically.
She shakes her head. “You don’t know him like I do.”
A humorless laugh almost escapes me.
I know him better than she thinks.
“He won’t hate you,” I say.
He’ll hate me, but I don’t say that part out loud.
I shift slightly, turning toward her. “You’re not alone in this,” I say.
She looks up immediately.
Really looks at me.
Like she’s trying to decide if I’m lying.
“I mean it,” I add. “I signed the same marriage license you did.” I exhale slowly. “This isn’t just your mess. We’ll figure it out. We’ll get divorced. People do it all the time. What is it now, more than half of marriages?”
I shrug lightly, aiming for humor. “It’s totally respectable.”
She huffs softly. “Two people getting drunk and married in Vegas and then divorced six months later. Very respectable.”
“It happens,” I say, my mouth twitching.
She glances at me. “To you?”
“No.”
She almost smiles.
“We have a plan,” I continue. “We get divorced. Quietly. If we’re lucky, no one will ever know. Besides Daniel.”
“Do you really believe that’s possible?”
I hold her gaze. “Yes.”
I don’t know if that’s true.
But I need her to believe it is.
She studies me.
“My dad always finds out,” she whispers.
I nod slowly.
“He might,” I admit.
Her shoulders tense again.
“But if he does,” I add, “we’ll handle it. Together.”