Chapter Fifty-One
THE COLD LATE-NIGHT brEEZE SWIRLS through my hair as I stand in front of Jasper’s home. The house that feels like a warm hug. The peeling red paint of the front door. The worn-down welcome mat that now reads W-l-c-m! The wild limbs that crawl up the awning to find their way inside.
I want to find my way inside.
Even the moon looks different here, a crescent silver slice giving voice to the white wood slats that shape the house.
I hold up a fist. Pause. Ask my hand if it really wants to do what it’s about to do. And yes, in fact, it does. I rap three times.
I wait. I press my middle fingers into my palms. I smell the ends of my hair. I cup my palm against my mouth and sniff my breath. I repeat Jasper’s words in my mind: Just let me be alone for a bit, Kota. It’s been a bit, hasn’t it?
When I’ve almost abandoned hope, the rusty bronze knob twists, and the front door creaks open. Jasper stands in the doorway.
The sight of him washes over me like a rainstorm on a warm summer day.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey.”
A pit forms in my stomach at his words, but not the kind that clenches and twists and signals Warning! to my brain. It sort of shimmers and swirls around like golden sparklers on a black night. The unfamiliar sensation isn’t unwelcome. In fact, I want to feel it more.
For a moment, he’s silent. Then he says, “Listen, about earlier . . .”
I step toward him. “Is there room at the inn?”
“I don’t know that it’s a good idea.”
“You know what’s not a good idea? Pushing me away because you’re scared.
You’re assuming that I’ll lose myself to power when that’s not what I want.
I want my sister to be safe. I want a chance at living.
And, Jasper, I want you. So,” I say, taking a final step toward him, close enough to see the rise and fall of his chest. Close enough to touch his pursed lips with my own. “Is there room at the inn, or not?”
His silence sends jitters jumping down my body. Coming here, I prepared myself for rejection, but now that I’m facing it, I want to turn on my heel and run so he can’t see me cry. I’m about to do just that when Jasper opens the door wider.
He says, “For you, there’s always room.”
I exhale a heavy breath of relief and smile. Jasper smiles back, his dimples barely visible beneath his five-o’clock shadow.
I want to poke his dimples. I want to jump into his arms. I want to wrap my legs around his torso, and I want to kiss his face.
I don’t.
Instead, I place one foot in front of the other. My heart flutters in my chest like a butterfly, but I move forward in slow motion.
The door closes with a soft click. Jasper stands behind me, and I turn around to face him. My body is all too aware of his presence: his breath, tickling the top of my head; his gaze, on my lips; his hands, hovering by his sides.
If you don’t know what to do with them, put them on me.
Jasper gestures forward. “Would you like a glass of wine?”
Would I ever.
I nod. The air caresses my skin like a languid wave as he takes my hand and walks around me toward the basement door.
I keep my eyes on the flame of Jasper’s lighter as we wander down.
Each step creaks as it gives way to our slow, careful footsteps.
I stand, arms crossed, while Jasper lights the sconces one by one.
He asks, “Red or white?”
“Red,” I say, although I really couldn’t care less.
As he selects a bottle, his muscled back ripples beneath his T-shirt. He reeks of BO, but I think it’s that musky scent that taunts me. I’d rip his shirt off with my teeth if he asked.
I grit my molars so hard I think they might shatter.
Jasper turns around, the corner of his lip curling into a half-smile. “Why don’t you pick?”
Breathless, I say, “Sure.” I switch positions with him, but he walks up behind me—I don’t hear him so much as feel him.
My hand stills on a bottle, but as his body presses against mine, I don’t make a note of the label. He bends his head down so that his breath tickles my ears. He moves his hands to my upper arms and strokes my skin. Slow, controlled, gentle.
The space between my thighs pulsates, and I can no longer form rational thoughts. I need to feel him. Closer, closer, more.
Bottle in hand, I spin around . . . and then drop it as soon as my eyes find his. The bottle shatters on the floor, glass flying and red wine puddling at our feet.
Jasper’s eyes narrow.
For a second, I wonder if we’re on the same page. If what I want is what he wants.
But the simple lifting of the corner of his mouth erases all doubts. So I make my move. I throw my hands around his stubbled face, press myself to tippy toes, and kiss him like my life depends on it. Like both of our lives depend on it.
Jasper’s hands grab my waist, and he lifts me, slamming my back against the wall of wine.
At least six bottles slide off the shelf and shatter into a million pieces.
The smell of fermentation fills the air.
I wrap my legs around his waist to bring myself closer.
His hands move under my butt, and he lifts me up higher. My body is on fire.
I am living.
“Jasper,” I breathe. I pull my face away from his and look him in the eye. “More.”
He presses his lips against mine and walks us toward the stairs, glass crunching under his feet. I’m a giggling mess, and my cheeks are aflame as he takes the full flight with my body wrapped around his like seaweed around rice.
The house is pitch black, but Jasper carries me to his room with ease. He flings the door open. I see nothing but the wide-open window on the opposite side of the room. A gentle breeze wafts inside. The room smells of soap and wood and him.
Jasper flops me onto the edge of the bed and kneels down in front of me. “Is this okay?”
Being with a man who respects me and understands me and values me and asks for my permission?
“Yes,” I breathe, “it’s okay.”
He undoes my jeans, popping the buttons off one by one. “This?” he asks, meeting my eyes.
In response, I grab his head, pull it up to mine, and kiss him. I don’t know how long I’ve wanted him, but now that he’s mine, I can’t ever let him go. I won’t.
I’ve found my way home.