22. Jonah
JONAH
I barely have time to process what’s happening before Lila has me pressed against the door, her good arm snaking around my neck as she kisses me with an urgency that steals my breath. My hands hover uselessly at my sides for a moment, caught between desire and concern.
“Lila, your shoulder—” I manage to get out between kisses, but she silences me by nipping at my lower lip.
“Forget my shoulder,” she murmurs against my mouth, her fingers already working at the buttons of my shirt with surprising dexterity for someone with only one functioning arm. “I’ve been thinking about this since the bathtub.”
My brain short-circuits at her words, at the memory of our desperate kiss during the tornado. The rational part of me—the part that cataloged every detail of her medical chart while she was sleeping—can’t fully surrender.
“You’re not fully healed,” I protest weakly, even as my hands find her waist, drawing her closer despite my better judgment. “The doctor said?—”
“The doctor,” Lila says, successfully undoing three buttons and pressing her lips to my newly exposed collarbone, “did not factor in how incredibly hot you are when you go all commanding on Lucas.”
I feel heat flood my face. “I wasn’t?—”
“You were.” Her teeth graze my neck, and I have to stifle a groan. “And I’m going to need you to do it again. Preferably with fewer clothes.”
My entire body feels like it’s on fire as Lila’s mouth traces a path along my collarbone. Every rational thought dissolves under her touch.
“I—” My words catch in my throat as her teeth graze a particularly sensitive spot. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
She pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, her expression a mix of desire and determination. “Then be careful,” she whispers, taking my hand and guiding it to her waist. “But don’t stop.”
That’s all the permission I need. Something shifts inside me—a barrier breaking, restraint crumbling. I spin us around, pressing her gently against the door instead, mindful of her injured shoulder. My movements are careful but deliberate as I pin her there with my hips.
“Like this?” I ask, letting my tone drop to that lower register that clearly gets a reaction. The look on her face—pupils blown wide, lips parted—tells me I’ve hit the mark.
“Exactly like that,” she breathes, her good hand sliding into my hair.
I capture her mouth again, kissing her deeply while my fingers find the hem of her shirt, tracing the warm skin beneath. She shivers against me, making a small sound in the back of her throat that unravels something in my chest.
“Bed,” she mumbles against my lips. “We both know that Lucas will be back much sooner than we’d like, and I will tolerate him far better post-orgasm.”
The word “bed” short-circuits my brain entirely.
I stare at her, momentarily frozen as my thoughts scatter like papers in a windstorm.
Her directness about what she wants—about sex—leaves me completely unmoored.
I’ve never been with someone so straightforward, so unapologetically clear about their desires.
I manage a nod and step aside. She catches my hand as she moves past, guiding me toward the bed. When we reach it, she turns back to me, her expression lit with quiet amusement.
“Are you okay?” she asks, reaching up to touch my cheek. “You look like you’re having a stroke.”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically, though my voice comes out strangled.
Her eyebrows lift as understanding dawns. “Oh my god. Am I freaking you out?” A new thought seems to strike her. “Wait, you’re not a virgin, are you?”
“What? No!” I feel heat flood my face. “God, no. I’ve had partners. It’s just?—”
“Just what?” she prompts, looking genuinely curious now.
I run a hand through my hair, trying to organize my thoughts. “Shouldn’t we talk about, you know, the pre-sex stuff first? I know we’ve done other things, but this seems like something we should discuss first before taking it a step farther. Birth control, sexual history?”
Lila laughs, the sound warm and affectionate rather than mocking. “Look at you, being all responsible.” She sits on the edge of the bed, pulling me down beside her. Lila gives me a look that’s half amusement, half disbelief. “You really want to have the safe sex talk right now?”
“It’s important,” I insist, though my body is screaming at me to shut up and get back to kissing her.
She rolls her eyes, but there’s fondness in it. “Fine. I’m clean, I have an IUD, and you’d have to actually have sex in the last five years to be worried about catching something.”
I clear my throat, feeling my face heat up again. “I’m clean too. I had a vasectomy a few years ago, and same on the partner front.”
She looks genuinely surprised. “Why did you have a vasectomy?”
“Personal choice. I never wanted children. The procedure is safer than female options, so...” I trail off, suddenly feeling like I’ve overshared.
Lila studies me for a long moment, then breaks into a grin. “So what you’re saying is, we don’t need to worry about condoms.”
“Well, I—that’s not why I mentioned it.”
“Sure it wasn’t.” She laughs again, and it’s the most beautiful sound I’ve heard in days.
I reach for her hand, intertwining our fingers. “So. No condoms needed, unless you’d prefer?—”
“Nope, we’re good,” she interrupts, her voice dropping to that husky tone that makes my pulse quicken. “Now can we please stop talking and get naked? My shoulder’s killing me, and I’d really like you to distract me.”
I’m still processing the abrupt shift when her mouth finds mine again, hot and insistent. My hands hover uncertainly at her waist, worried about her injuries.
“You can touch me,” she murmurs against my lips. “I won’t break.”
“Your shoulder?—”
“Will be fine if you don’t grab it directly.” She takes my hand and guides it under her shirt, pressing my palm against the warm skin of her stomach. “There are plenty of places that aren’t injured and plenty of positions, too.”
The feel of her skin under my fingers silences my protests. I trace the curve of her waist, marveling at the softness there, the way she shivers at my touch. I move my hand higher, tracing the underside of her breast through her bra, and her breath catches.
“You’re overthinking,” she whispers against my ear, her good hand working at the remaining buttons of my shirt. “I can practically hear your brain whirring.”
“Sorry,” I murmur, helping her with my buttons.
Lila laughs softly, the sound vibrating against my neck where her lips are now pressed. “Stop apologizing and take your shirt off, Professor.”
I comply, shrugging out of my button-down with more eagerness than grace. Her eyes darken as she takes me in, and I feel unexpectedly self-conscious under her gaze.
“I don’t spend much time in the gym,” I find myself explaining, though she hasn’t said anything.
“Thank god,” Lila breathes, her fingers tracing the lean lines of my chest. “I hate gym bros.”
Her touch leaves trails of fire on my skin. I lean forward, capturing her lips again as my hand slides higher under her shirt, cupping her breast fully now. She arches into my touch, making a small sound of approval that sends heat straight to my groin.
“Your turn,” I murmur against her mouth. “Sling first.”
Her gaze darts to her sling, and she nods. “I’ll need your help with it.”
I move carefully, finding the strap that secures it around her neck and gently lifting it over her head. As I remove the sling, I’m hyperaware of her injured shoulder, making sure not to jostle it.
“You’re being so careful with me,” she murmurs, watching my face with an intensity that makes my pulse quicken.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
Lila’s expression softens. “I know. That’s why I trust you.”
The statement hits me with unexpected force. Trust. From Lila Brooks, the woman who trusts storms more than people. I swallow hard, suddenly feeling the weight of that responsibility.
“Now, the shirt’s going to be tricky.”
I help her pull it over her head, moving slowly to avoid any unnecessary strain on her shoulder. When the fabric finally clears, revealing a simple black bra against her freckled skin, I forget how to breathe.
“Like what you see, Professor?” she teases, but I catch the hint of vulnerability beneath her bravado.
“You’re beautiful,” I whisper, meaning it more than any scientific conclusion I’ve ever reached.
Her cheeks flush, and for once, she doesn’t deflect with humor. “Your turn to lose the pants.”
I stand, fingers fumbling with my belt. I’m not normally this uncoordinated, but Lila’s eyes on me make my hands clumsy and uncertain. The leather strap finally comes free, and I work on the button and zipper next, hyperaware of her watching my every move.
“You’re taking too long,” she says, reaching forward with her good hand to help. Her fingers brush against mine, then lower, grazing me through my underwear. I inhale sharply, my hips jerking forward involuntarily.
“Sorry,” I mutter, embarrassed by my reaction.
Lila grins up at me. “Don’t apologize. I like knowing I affect you.”
She helps push my pants down my hips, and I kick them off, standing before her in just my boxers. The thin cotton does nothing to hide my obvious arousal.
“Well, hello there, Professor,” she purrs, her gaze dropping to the bulge in my underwear. “Looks like someone’s ready for a hands-on experiment.”
I can’t help but laugh, even as desire pools hot and heavy in my stomach. “Did you really just make a science pun during foreplay?”
“Would you expect anything less?” She hooks her finger into the waistband of my boxers, tugging me closer. “Now, are you going to help me with these jeans, or are we going to stand here discussing my comedic timing?”
I lean down to kiss her, sliding my hands to her hips, feeling the rough denim beneath my fingers. The button yields easily, but the zipper requires more concentration, especially with Lila’s good hand now running up and down my chest, making coherent thought nearly impossible.