Chapter Twenty-Seven Jo
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Jo
T he first brush of his lips, slow and tender, sends a shock of electricity through me.
It doesn’t escape me that Silas was the one to bridge that final gap. That small act warms me, defying the freezing wet clothes still clinging to my body. We stay this way for a while, a gentle exploration of soft lips and cautious tongues as his hands hold my face with so much care it feels as if I’m delicate and expensive.
Here, in his apartment, everything feels inherently different now that I’ve laid my cards on the table. The possibilities feel endless, like we can finally do or say whatever we want, and that knowledge allows me to be as bold as I want to be. Finally, I have what I want.
As time passes, so does his touch as he explores my body, and there’s no hesitation in the way his fingers skate up my sides and breasts. He palms them at the same time, and the heat from his hands against my chilled skin sends shivers down my spine. I moan deep in my throat in response, and he grabs fistfuls of my wet T-shirt and hoists it up and over my head. It lands on the hardwood floor with a satisfying plop.
He reaches for me again, but I stop him by grabbing the hemline of his black T-shirt. “My turn,” I murmur as I lift it up, giving me my first glimpse of those broad shoulders I’ve been so curious about.
I only get a few seconds to drink in the freckles that dot his arms and the modest chest hair spread across his pecs before he’s back with a vengeance. His lips crash into mine, and I catch his bottom lip in my teeth as my hands roam the hard expanse of his front. His hands spread across my sides, gripping me almost possessively, before tracing the lines of my damp bralette to explore the expanse of my back. As our tongues dance, he inches me backward until my legs hit the bed. His fingers fumble with the space where a bra clasp should be, and I can tell he’s searching for a way to get this thing off me.
“What the hell kind of bra is this?” he asks in a gravelly, frustrated voice, once he realizes there’s no clasp in the front either.
“It’s a bralette,” I explain with a husky laugh before hoisting the whole thing off me in one quick swoop.
He steps back in response. His lips and cheeks are flushed as his eyes sweep over my body, drinking me in. Of course, he’s seen me in roughly the same amount of clothing before; some of those sports bras and leggings leave little to the imagination. But this is the first time he’s seen me topless, in a pair of purposefully short denim cutoffs that are doing their best to fall off me, and if there’s one thing I’m sure of in this world, it’s that I look pretty damn good naked.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “You are… unreal.”
Words seem to fail my writer, so I savor this moment, where nothing else matters aside from the fact that we are both half naked and thoroughly enjoying ourselves. He decides to let his hands and his lips do the talking for him, and as he kisses my jaw, my ear, my neck, I palm the hard length of him through the denim of his jeans. There’s a sharp intake of breath just as his lips reach my chest, and I can feel the entirety of his body jolt at the sudden pleasure. He laughs softly before taking my breast in his mouth.
“What’s so funny?” I manage to ask as my fingers start to work on the buttons of his pants.
“Nothing,” he murmurs before moving to the other breast. “I just can’t believe this is happening.”
It hits me then too, just as his tongue swirls over my nipple, sending waves of pleasure surging through me.
Silas and I are going to sleep together, and it’s going to mean something.
This is not a booze-fueled one-night stand; it’s not a fuck-buddy situation, as cheap and easy as it is feral. This is someone I want to keep seeing, someone I care about, someone who chose me—not in spite of, but because of all the things that I am.
Silas could be, might be, someone I can love.
Suddenly it’s not enough—I need more of him, I need him groaning and writhing beneath me. I make quick work of undoing his jeans, which he frantically steps out of, along with his socks. I barely get to touch the hard swell of him through the thin fabric of his boxers before I’m pushed back onto the bed.
It’s then that I see it—a tattoo in the form of a three-pronged pitchfork, black and simple as it stretches along his upper thigh. I gasp. It’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.
“Oh,” he says, once he realizes what I’m looking at. “I always forget that’s there.”
I lean forward to trace my finger along the delicate lines that disappear beneath the hem of his boxers. “Why the pitchfork?”
“ American Gothic .” His fingers rake through my damp hair, urging me to look up. When our eyes meet, a fierce heat blazes through me. “The painting. It’s set in Iowa.”
“I’ve never met someone who makes both farming and art seem so sexy.”
He gives me a devilish grin as he says, “You haven’t seen anything yet.”
Silas falls to his knees and helps me to shimmy out of my shorts and underwear. Wide shoulders nestle between my spread legs as one hand splays over my abdomen, pinning me in place. He tests me with his fingers first, gentle and curious as I gasp at the contact, until he starts to figure out what movements feel so good that my body jerks on reflex. It’s only then that he tastes me, his tongue working in great sweeping strokes that leave me breathless and floaty. Pleasure starts to build, hot and fast, starting in the center of my body and rippling out to the very tips of my fingers and toes.
“Condom,” I manage to grind out. “Do you have a condom?”
He murmurs what I assume is a yes while his mouth continues to take me higher. Silas is clearly in no hurry to finish, so I relent, relaxing into the soft duvet at my back. It’s only when his tongue settles into a quick rhythm that I hit my peak, exploding all around him in a series of frantic moans, my fingers tight in his hair, his mouth and fingers determined to stay with me through every pulse and twitch of my body.
“Jesus,” I mutter, breathless, my eyes closed in the aftermath of such a great orgasm.
As Silas finally rises and sheds his boxers, he says, “No, Jo, that one was all me.”
I laugh, but only for a second, because when I open my eyes I get my first full view of his naked body.
My heart swells so much I’m certain my chest can’t contain it.
As he pulls a foil packet from the top drawer of his dresser, I scramble up to the center of the bed. He stands at the foot, condom packet clutched in one hand, and stares as if he can’t resist taking another look at me. I’m splayed out before him on the duvet, fully nude and flush from pleasure, every dip and curve and line of my body on full display.
I get my first good look at him too. He’s built like I imagined, but underneath those runner’s muscles, he possesses the kind of strength cultivated by hard physical labor—no doubt from his youth spent doing outdoorsy things against his will. And that tattoo —a proud reminder of where he came from, what he loves. For several long breaths, we simply stare at each other, savoring the raw vulnerability that comes from rare moments like this.
For once, I’m not afraid. Acknowledging my lack of fear and nerves… It means so much to me, just to know that I can do this, that I can have this. The pleasure, the joy, the connection with him—it’s worth the risk.
I’m so, so glad it’s paying off.
Then he’s rolling the condom on and crawling toward me on the bed, settling between my parted legs before bringing his mouth to mine. The hard jut of him is impossible to ignore as he grinds against my hips. One shift, one slight change to the angle of our bodies, and he slides in with ease.
I gasp at the sudden pleasure and the slight surprise of his size. My legs hook around his hips to grant him better access as my nails run down his back. We breathe in tandem as he holds himself there, both of our bodies trembling with the effort to keep ourselves together.
“Fuck,” he hisses, his voice uncharacteristically low. “You’re going to ruin me, Jo.”
“Good. Destroy me.”
He laughs as his face dips into my hair.
Using one arm to prop himself up, his free hand skates down my body just as he starts to move. I kiss him hard as our hips roll into each other. His fingers linger on my stomach, the touch impossibly light, before they snake upward to toy with my breasts.
Even though I’m shredding his back with my nails, it’s still not intense enough. I want to see all of us, so I use my considerable strength to lever myself against him. In one quick swoop of my legs, I’m on top, my thighs straddling his hips. The contrast between us is stark: the tan of my skin seems so rich against his pale frame. I admire us for a few seconds before I start to move in earnest.
With my hands splayed out on his chest, I do my best to maintain eye contact with him, but it’s no use. The longer I ride him, the higher I climb, and soon my eyes are fluttering closed as his hands grip my hips tighter and tighter, just hard enough to hurt a little. I get just one warning from my body—my stomach clenching hard—before I unravel, toes curling and breath hitching as I moan his name.
This time, he flips us. With my back against the duvet, he drives into me hard, shaking loose a stream of obscenities from my lips. He buries his face into my hair as he chases his own release. He finds it not long after, with powerful thrusts that rattle both the bed and the desk. His entire body trembles, and I grip him hard, as if my arms alone can hold him together.
He releases a satisfied groan as he collapses to the side. Our legs tangle together as our labored breathing slows. I’m content to simply lie here, listening to the sounds of our exhales and the quiet pitter-patter of rain against the windows as the aftershocks of pleasure course through me.
Still partially on top of me, Silas shudders as he inhales, and a little bolt of pride shoots through me.
Yep—I’ve still got it.