20. Chapter 20
twenty
Noel
I wake to the glorious sight of Jamie Bishop sprawled out on my pink floral sheets, his face in the mattress, his pillow propped under his ribs.
A stomach sleeper…
Bed head that could win a contest…
It wasn’t here that I saw us that night on the roof, but I knew these things before I even opened my eyes.
He’s sleeping hard and peaceful, and I stare at the ceiling, thinking about the start of all this. Our eyes meeting on that roof. How scared I was when he showed back up on my porch. His suggestion that we see what happens. And now, knowing him in the most intimate way.
God, last night was so intense and new, even I find it hard to believe it could mean anything other than the two of us were meant to do that.
I’ve never experienced that kind of intimacy.
There were moments when I wondered if we’d swapped souls and Jamie’s blood was running through my veins.
I feel him now in the more physical places—the soreness in my legs from the stretch of wrapping them around him, the scratch of his stubble all over my chin. I’ll be wearing him for days.
As if to remind me that contemplating the universe is hard work, my stomach growls audibly. I’d love to stay here and watch him sleep all day, but this is Jamie’s schedule—staying up late, sleeping all morning. Mine is accustomed to meals at regular intervals. And coffee.
I lift his fingers one by one from my hip and slip out of bed, creeping down the stairs to the living room to search for the shirt he was wearing last night.
I find it on the floor beside the couch and pull it over my head on my way to make a cup of coffee before settling at the kitchen table with my sketch pad.
I’ve just started to sketch a pointed, veined leaf when I hear the stairs creak, his bare feet on the wood. I tip my head back and smile, waiting for his touch.
“Morning.” His hand slides up my neck and into my hair as he leans around to kiss me over my shoulder.
His eyes are sleepy, right lid heavier. It’s just a tad more pronounced right now, my favorite little quirk.
It occurs to me that if someone else were to notice this about him, it would be here, first thing in the morning when he’s not yet fully awake.
That thought whips a slice of possessiveness straight across my chest, so strong I nearly flinch from it.
“Did I wake you up?”
“No. You’re very stealthy. I rolled over to the cold sheet before I realized you were gone.
” He spins my stool so it’s facing him and kisses me again.
He has to bend nearly in half, and I think of the way I disappeared beneath him last night.
How every inch of my skin was pressed to his and he had more to spare.
“Did you sleep okay? You must have been so uncomfortable.” I’d woken up more than once feeling awful for the way I was pressed against his ribs. I tried to adjust but I was trapped, and he was so still. So deeply out.
“I wasn’t actually,” he says. “I was… cozy. Were you?”
“Very cozy.”
His mouth moves to my neck before he pulls away to look at the paper spread out over the kitchen table. “These are yours?”
“Mmhmm. The hops are in there somewhere.”
He lifts the loose leaf paintings and thumbs through. “Holy shit, they’re gorgeous.”
“You sound surprised.”
“No, I’m just not much of an art scholar. My only experience with watercolors is from kindergarten.”
I snort. “Well, then I’m really glad you’re impressed.”
“I am. I had no idea they could look like this. I like this one.”
He holds up a beach rose I did the other day because I was missing them. “Me too.”
“What are you drawing now?”
“Poinsettias. I think I’m going to take your advice. I like doing invitations, custom cards. So I’m doing them.”
“ My advice?”
“Yes. Why do you look so surprised?”
He reaches behind me and runs a finger over the paper, studying what’s barely a draft at this point. Just the bones. “It blows me away that all of that talent is just floating around in here.” He lifts my hands, kissing my knuckles.
“You think my hands are talented, huh?”
His smirk turns mischievous. “Can’t say enough about them, actually.”
We kiss again, and my body flushes from my head to my toes, waves of anticipation and need pulsing in my blood. I wonder if it will always be like this. If this connection that sparks between us will continue to manifest physically.
He pulls away, his hand still cupping my cheek. The flock of birds on his forearm catches my eye and I turn to press my lips there. “Where did you get this done?”
“Hay Needles,” he says. “On Congress Street.”
“It’s gorgeous.”
“You’re gorgeous.”
“Did you get them all there?” I ask, wondering about the wave, then the lyrics I saw that never materialized.
“Nah, I’m not attached to any artist in particular. Maybe I’ll have you draw my next one.”
“Really?”
“Sure, gorgeous. Mark me yours.” I laugh, and his hands fall to the hem of the T-shirt I stole, dragging it up my belly. He catches his lip between his teeth, sucking in a breath when he gets to my bare breasts. “Take this off.”
“No.” I cross my arms, clutching the cotton. “I want to wear it.”
He chuckles. “Why? It’s been on the floor all night.”
“I just do.”
“Fine. I can work around it.” His hands slip beneath it instead, which is a perfectly enjoyable compromise. Then he sinks to his knees and stretches the tee over his head.
My laugh turns into a gasp of pleasure when his teeth graze my navel, his hot breath trapped against me. “I want to bury myself in you. Stay there all day.”
I latch my hands into that bed head. “That sounds like a very enjoyable day.”
“But…” He kisses my hip.
“But?”
“I have to work.”
“Booo,” I whine, and he laughs against my skin, then frees himself.
“Baby, if I’d known I was going to wake up here when I did the schedule, trust me, I wouldn’t have been on it.”
“Are you sure you’re up to it?”
“I need to get back to full time soon. We’re about to be busy once the cold settles in and people don’t want to drink on decks anymore.
But I have the lunch shift. I’ll be done by five.
There’s a thing down on Thompson’s Point tonight.
I want to take you.” I glance at the bruise still lingering on his ribs, and he catches me.
“It’s low key, I promise. Just music, food trucks. Beer. You can sleep in my bed after?”
“Whose beer?” I ask.
His face lights. “Mine.”
“Well, I suppose you have to be there then.”
“It would be the professional thing to do.” He dips his mouth to my ear. “But just so we’re clear, I want you there for purely non-professional reasons.”
“Okay,” I tell him, my heart glowing. “I’ll go with you.”