Chapter 6: Forbidden Hunger
The forty-eight hours since the library felt like a held breath. Emily tried to study. The words bled together on the page. She went to the dining hall, pushed food around her plate. Everything tasted like static. Her skin still remembered the vibration of his motorcycle, the exact pressure of his mouth on hers.
Sunday afternoon crept in, gray and damp. She had her playlist on, a blanket pulled to her chin, trying to read the same paragraph for the twentieth time when the door to her room flew open.
It crashed against the wall with a bang that made her heart seize.
Jake stood in the doorway, chest heaving. He was shirtless, wearing only low-slung sweatpants, his torso a map of ink and taut muscle glistening with a fine sheen of sweat. Rain dampened his hair. His eyes were dark, almost wild, fixed on her with an intensity that stripped the air from the room.
“Jake—” she started, sitting bolt upright.
He was already moving. He kicked the door shut behind him, the click of the lock deafening. In three strides he was at the edge of her bed, his knees hitting the mattress, making her bounce. He caged her in, palms slamming down on either side of her hips, leaning in so close she could see the frantic pulse in his neck.
The scent of him—sweat, rain, that cologne—filled the space, overwhelming the lavender. It was physical, a weight.
“You think I can wait until tonight?” The words were a snarl, ripped from somewhere deep and ragged. “Sitting across from you at some fucking table? Making polite conversation?”
Her mind blanked. All she could process was the heat radiating off him, the controlled violence in his posture. “You said Sunday—”
“I know what I said.” He cut her off, his gaze dropping to her mouth. A muscle ticked in his jaw. “That was before I spent two days seeing your mouth every time I closed my eyes. Before I wore a goddamn hole in my floor pacing.” He brought one hand up, his fingers rough as they brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. The touch was a contradiction—tender intent, shaking execution. “Tell me you didn’t think about it. Tell me you slept just fine.”
She couldn’t lie. Her own breath was coming in short pulls. “I didn’t sleep.”
A sound, half-growl, half-sigh, escaped him. “Yeah.” His thumb traced the line of her lower lip. “That’s what I thought.”
Then he kissed her.
It wasn’t like the library. That had been rain and question marks. This was pure, unfiltered claim. His mouth was desperate, hungry, all consuming. One hand fisted in her hair, angling her head to take the kiss deeper, while the other arm wrapped around her back, hauling her flush against the bare skin of his chest. She gasped into him, her hands flying up, unsure where to land. They settled on his shoulders, the skin hot and smooth over hard muscle, the raised lines of tattoos familiar under her palms.
He tasted like mint and something darker, like coffee and unrest. He kissed her until she was dizzy, until her fingers curled into his shoulders for purchase. When he finally broke away, they were both panting, foreheads pressed together.
“Jake,” she whispered, her voice foreign to her own ears.
“I’m here,” he murmured against her cheek, his lips brushing her skin as he spoke. “I’m right here, and I’m losing my fucking mind.” His arm tightened around her. “You feel that?” He pressed her hand over his heart. It hammered against her palm, a frantic, stumbling rhythm. “That’s you. Only you do that.”
The confession, raw and unvarnished, did something to her. It melted the last of her fear, replacing it with a surge of something powerful and new. She didn’t just want him. She wanted this—the unraveled truth of him, the broken parts he hid from everyone else.
She shifted, pushing back against his chest just enough to look at him. His eyes were wide, the pupils blown, vulnerability stark in the lamplight. It was the most beautiful, terrifying thing she’d ever seen.
“So don’t wait,” she said.
For a second, he just stared, as if he’d misheard. Then his expression shifted, the intensity softening into something awed. “Emily…”
She kissed him this time. A slow, deliberate press of her lips to his, a silent answer. It was all the permission he needed.
He lowered her back onto the pillows, his movements suddenly deliberate, slow where they had been frantic. He kissed her again, deeper now, his hands roaming her sides, learning the shape of her through her thin t-shirt. Every touch was a live wire. His lips traveled from her mouth to her jaw, down the column of her throat. She arched into him, a soft sound escaping her as his teeth grazed her collarbone.
His hand slipped under the hem of her shirt, his palm hot and rough against the skin of her stomach. She flinched, a tiny, instinctive jump.
He froze instantly. Pulled back just enough to look at her face. “Okay?” His voice was gravel.
She nodded, swallowing. “Yes. Just… new.”
He searched her eyes, his own filled with a startling tenderness. “We stop anytime. You say the word, it stops.” He lifted his hand, showing her his palm, a truce. “Always.”
The care in his words undid her. She reached for him, pulling him back down. “I know.”
It was clumsy and perfect. The fumble of clothes, the shock of cool air followed by the heat of his skin against hers. There were moments of pain, sharp and breathtaking, that made her dig her nails into his back. He stilled, his whole body trembling with the effort, whispering nonsense into her hair—“breathe, just breathe, I’ve got you”—until it faded into a fullness that stole her breath for another reason.
He moved with a reverence that belied everything she knew about him. His bad boy persona, the armor of tattoos and silence, it all fell away. Here, he was just Jake—eyes shut tight, breath hitching, utterly exposed. She watched his face, watched the struggle and surrender, and felt a possessive ache bloom in her chest.
After, he collapsed beside her, rolling to his back but immediately pulling her against him, her head on his chest. The silence was thick, broken only by their ragged breathing slowing into sync. Her room was a wreck of displaced blankets, the single lamp casting their tangled legs in long shadows.
He didn’t speak for a long time. His fingers traced idle patterns on her bare shoulder.
“The bandage,” she said quietly, her voice hoarse. “Is it still in your pocket?”
His chest moved with a silent chuckle. He leaned over, groping for the discarded sweatpants on the floor. He pulled them up, dug into the pocket, and held it out. The small, wrinkled square of gauze and tape, carried since the night he’d climbed her wall.
“Told you,” he said softly, letting it fall to the nightstand.
She propped herself up on an elbow to look at him. The sweat had dried on his skin. He looked younger, the hard lines of his face relaxed. “What happens now?” she asked.
He met her gaze, his own serious. “Now,” he said, his thumb stroking her cheek. “We get dressed. We go to that awful dinner. And we lie through our teeth.” He gave her a small, grim smile. “And then… we figure out the rest.”
Outside, a car horn blared. The real world, with its schedules and family dinners, came rushing back. But here, in the mess of her sheets, with the evidence of his secret still crumpled on her nightstand, something irreversible had settled. It was terrifying. It was all she wanted.
He sat up, running a hand through his hair. “We should go.” He said it, but made no move to get up, his eyes drinking her in as if memorizing the scene.
She nodded, pulling the sheet around herself. “Yeah.”
He stood, a magnificent, tattooed silhouette against the dim light. He found his shirt, pulled it on. The act of covering up felt symbolic, the bad boy armor clicking back into place. But when he turned to offer her a hand up, his eyes were still the ones from the bed—open, vulnerable, and fixed solely on her.