14. Jaxon #2
I lower my head, taking one nipple into my mouth. Her reaction is immediate—back arching, fingers digging into my shoulders, a soft cry escaping her lips. I learn her body with devoted attention, discovering what makes her breath hitch, what draws those soft, desperate sounds from her throat.
Her hands aren't idle, exploring the muscles of my back, my chest, dipping teasingly below my waistband. When her fingers brush against me through my jeans, I groan against her skin.
"Too many clothes," she repeats, more urgently.
We undress each other with the paradoxical mixture of impatience and reverence that only desire can create—hands fumbling with zippers and buttons, pausing to explore each new expanse of skin, then rushing forward again until we're both naked, breathing heavily, eyes locked in silent communication.
I trail my fingers down her stomach, pressing soft kisses to the curve of her hip before lowering myself between her thighs. Her breath stutters, her hands tangling in my hair as I press a kiss to the inside of her knee, then another higher.
When my mouth finally finds her, she gasps—head tilting back, fingers clutching at the sheets. I take my time, tasting her, savoring her, letting her pleasure build in slow, torturous waves. Her thighs tremble around me, her body arching as I bring her closer, pushing her toward the edge.
"Jaxon—" she moans, voice breathless, pleading.
I slip a finger inside her, curling just right, matching the rhythm of my tongue. Her body tightens, shudders wracking through her as she falls apart, calling my name in a broken gasp.
I kiss my way back up her body, capturing her lips, letting her taste the pleasure still lingering between us. She reaches for me, nails dragging down my back, pulling me closer until there is nothing between us but heat and need.
I slide into her slowly, savoring the moment, the way her body welcomes me, the way she clings to me. A shudder rips through me as I still, letting her adjust, letting myself adjust to the sheer intensity of being inside her.
"Okay?" I ask, voice strained.
Her response is to tilt her hips, setting a rhythm that I match instinctively. We move together, our bodies in perfect sync, each thrust driving us higher. Our fingers lace together, her nails biting into my skin as pleasure builds between us, as we chase something inevitable and overwhelming.
"Jaxon—" she gasps, her body tightening around me, her release imminent.
"Let go," I urge, my voice rough, desperate. "I've got you."
She cries out, her body arching beneath me, and the sight of her—completely lost in pleasure, walls down, utterly mine—drives me over the edge. I follow her, my release crashing over me, my name a whispered prayer on her lips.
After, we lie tangled together, heartbeats gradually slowing, neither willing to break the fragile peace with words. I trace patterns on her bare shoulder, marveling at the softness of her skin, the reality of her in my arms after days of aching absence.
"That was..." she begins, then trails off, apparently unable to find an adequate description.
"Yeah," I agree, pressing a kiss to her temple. "It was."
Eventually, reluctantly, she stirs. "Lily—"
"Is asleep," I assure her. "Her room's next door, and she sleeps like the dead."
She relaxes back against me, head resting on my chest. "So what happens now?"
The question pulls me from the post-coital haze, reality intruding like an unwelcome guest. What does happen now? London still looms. My custody hearing approaches. The fundamental complications that drove us apart haven't changed.
"I don't know," I admit, tightening my arm around her reflexively.
She's quiet for a long moment. "I haven't accepted the London position yet."
Hope flares, bright and dangerous. "You haven't?"
"No." She traces idle patterns on my chest. "Gerald gave me until Friday to decide."
"What are you thinking?" I ask carefully, trying not to influence her decision despite the desperate desire to beg her to stay.
She sighs, the warm breath tickling my skin. "I'm thinking that career opportunities come and go, but some things... some connections... are rarer."
The implication makes my heart race, hope warring with deep-seated fear. Could we really make this work? Transform our arrangement into something genuine, permanent?
As if sensing my thoughts, she props herself up on one elbow, looking down at me with serious eyes. "But I need to know where you stand, Jaxon. Really stand. Not what you think is practical or what looks good for the custody case. What do you want for us—you, me, Lily—beyond these six months?"
The question lays me bare, more vulnerable than our physical intimacy.
Because the truth is, I do know what I want.
I want her to stay. I want mornings with coffee and Lily's science reports.
I want evenings with board games and braided hair.
I want Vivienne, not as a strategic alliance, but as a partner.
Maybe even, eventually, as a wife—for real this time.