Chapter 2: The Bedroom Door Closes
The door clicked shut, a soft, final sound that seemed to swallow the outside world. For a heartbeat, there was only the dim light filtering through the blinds, the frantic drum of her pulse in her ears. Then his hands were on her again, turning her, pressing her back against the cool wall beside the door. His mouth found hers, and this kiss wasn’t like the one in the hall. This was hunger, plain and simple.
His tongue swept into her mouth, tasting of lemon and mint and something darker, earthier. She kissed him back with a desperation that shocked her, her fingers digging into the solid rock of his shoulders. He groaned, low in his throat, the vibration passing straight through her. One hand slid up her side, under the thin singlet, his palm rough against her ribs. When his fingers closed over her breast, her back arched off the wall. A ragged sound escaped her, part gasp, part sob.
“God, Jake,” she breathed against his mouth.
He answered by pulling the singlet up and over her head, tossing it aside. The cool air on her skin was a shock, followed by the greater heat of his gaze. He looked at her, really looked, his blue eyes darkening. He thumbed her nipple, his calloused skin sending a jolt straight to her core.
“You’ve been driving me crazy for days,” he muttered, his voice gravel. “Walking around in those little shorts. Watching me.”
Before she could answer, he bent his head and took her nipple into his mouth, sucking hard. The sensation was so acute, so overwhelming, her knees buckled. He held her up easily, one arm locked around her waist, his mouth working on her until she was trembling, her fingers tangled in his sweaty hair.
With a smooth, effortless motion, he lifted her. She wrapped her legs around his waist, clinging to him as he carried her the few steps to the bed. He laid her down on the linen duvet, the fabric cool against her feverish skin. He stood over her, pulling his own shirt off. The tattoos she’d only glimpsed were a full map of a life she didn’t know: faded script, a jagged mountains, a dates. Scars, too. Pale lines against the tan. He was brutally, magnificently real.
He hooked his thumbs in the waistband of her cutoffs and drew them down, slowly, taking her plain cotton underwear with them. He knelt on the floor at the foot of the bed, his hands pushing her thighs apart. She was exposed, completely, to the muted afternoon light and his unwavering stare. She made a move to cover herself, but he caught her wrists, pinning them gently to her sides.
“Don’t,” he said, the word a command and a plea. “Just let me look.”
He did. For a long, breathless moment. Then he lowered his head.
The first touch of his tongue was a lightning strike. She cried out, her hips lifting off the bed. He didn’t tease. He was thorough, relentless, mapping her with a focus that felt like worship and conquest all at once. One of his hands released her wrist to slide under her, cupping her ass, holding her exactly where he wanted her. His beard scraped the tender skin of her inner thighs, a delicious, rough contrast to the soft, knowing work of his mouth.
The pressure built, a coil tightening deep in her belly. The sounds she made were foreign to her—raw, unfiltered, sounds that had never been heard in this tidy room. She fisted her hands in the duvet, her back bowing. “Please,” she heard herself whisper, a broken thing.
He understood. His rhythm shifted, intensified. The world dissolved into pure sensation, a white-hot point of pleasure that shattered, spreading through her limbs in relentless waves. She rode it out, gasping, her eyes squeezed shut against the unfurling colors behind her lids.
Before the last tremor had subsided, he was moving. She heard the rasp of his zipper, the rustle of his work pants being shoved down. She opened her eyes as he came over her, bracing himself on those powerful arms. He was thick, heavy, already slick. He nudged against her, and the feeling of him there, at her entrance, made her breath catch all over again.
He pushed in slowly, giving her every inch, letting her feel the full, stretching weight of him. Her body yielded, then clenched, drawing him deeper. When he was fully seated, he stilled, his face inches from hers. A muscle ticked in his jaw. Sweat beaded on his temple.
“Okay?” he asked, the word strained.
She could only nod, wrapping her legs around his hips, pulling him in further. It was an answer.
He began to move, a slow, deep rhythm that was more devastating than any frenzy. Each stroke was deliberate, a claim staked in the heart of her numbness. He watched her face, adjusting the angle until he found the spot that made her see stars. She clutched at his back, her nails biting into the hard muscle. The room filled with the sound of their breathing, the soft creak of the bed, the wet, rhythmic slide of their bodies.
“Look at me,” he growled.
She forced her eyes open, meeting his fierce blue gaze. In them, she saw none of David’s polite distraction, only a focused, animal intensity that was entirely for her. For this. It was the most seen she had felt in a decade. A sob caught in her throat, part pleasure, part grief for all the empty years.
“That’s it,” he murmured, driving into her harder, faster, as if he could chase the ghost away. “Right here. Just here.”
The second climb was different, deeper, a slow-building quake rather than a sharp explosion. It started in the place where they were joined, radiating out until her entire body was taut as a wire. She buried her face in the sweat-damp hollow of his neck, breathing in the scent of sun, salt, and man. Her release broke silently, a vast, inward collapse that left her boneless and quivering beneath him.
He followed moments later, a harsh, choked grunt hot against her ear, his entire body rigid before slumping over her, his weight a crushing, welcome anchor.
Silence, save for their ragged breaths. The slant of light from the window had shifted, climbing the opposite wall. A car door slammed somewhere down the street. Normal life.
He rolled off her, onto his back, one arm thrown over his eyes. She lay still, staring at the ceiling, feeling the slow, cooling trickle between her thighs. The scent of sex and sweat and crushed lavender from his skin filled the room.
After a long minute, he reached over, his hand finding hers on the duvet. His fingers laced with hers, rough and sure. They lay like that, in the quiet ruin of the afternoon.
Her phone, on the nightstand, buzzed once. A text. The screen lit up, casting