“You know, I never had a girl in this bedroom,” he says after a while, and I laugh a bit.
“Really?” I ask because that does genuinely shock me. He shakes his head, his lips grazing over my pulse, and despite myself, it starts to speed.
“Are you kidding me? And face the potential wrath of my mom finding her in here with me?”
“Oh, but now you’re fine with it?” I ask with faux irritation.
“For one, I’m thirty-two, so the worst she can do is tell me she’s disappointed in me.”
“Still a killing blow,” I say with a laugh, because everyone knows that Mrs. King’s disappointment is worse than her wrath, and his own reverberates through me.
“And two, if she found me in here, she would absolutely blame me, not you. She’d think I corrupted you.”
“If only,” I murmur. He laughs again and presses his lips to my neck.
“Another time,” he murmurs. “When things are more settled, if you really want, I’ll fuck you in my childhood bedroom.”
“Promises, promises,” I say with a sigh that morphs into a yawn. He laughs one last time, presses his lips to the back of my head, and settles us further into the blankets.
“Go to sleep, Hallie.”
And even though I should argue, even though I should kick him out, I don’t. Instead, I fall asleep in Jesse’s arms, waking up only when the alarm he set for far too early goes off so he can sneak out.
TWENTY-SEVEN
The week before we go to Killington for Adam’s birthday, we continue our routine. Every day, Emma and I hang out after school and make dinner. When Jesse gets home, Emma insists I stay to try it, something he agrees is necessary, with a smug grin as if he realizes, as I do, that his daughter is trying to push us together in her own way.
Each night, he convinces me to watch a movie on the couch together, one we barely watch because not long into it, we inevitably end up horizontal, making out. Every night, I try my best to get him to crack in his efforts to refrain from going any further than heated kisses.
Each night, he stops me before things get too good, telling me in soft words and gentle touches he’s not moving too fast, not until I’m ready. Then we spend the rest of the night holding each other and talking about everything and absolutely nothing at all.
I want to be annoyed by his method, but the truth is, each night, my fear of this failing lessens, and my need for him grows, so maybe he really does know what he’s doing.
But right now, that acceptance is nowhere to be found, not when I’m panting and needy as his lips move over mine.
I want more.Needmore. I feel like a horny teenager, making out while their mom is in the other room, except I’m ten years out of high school and Jesse has a whole-ass kid. But every time I try for something more, Jesse stops me.
Like right now, when his lips trail to my ear and pull the hoops between them, nipping at me there and sending heat straight to my core.
“Please,” I whisper, shifting to slip my hand between us, to touch him or maybe myself, I don’t know, and really, I don’t care, but his fingers loop around my wrist, and his head shakes.
“No, baby. Not tonight.” He looks at me softly, not annoyed, but with all of the patience in the world as his hand moves, his thumb running over my bottom lip. “We have all the time in the world for more. I’m not rushing things until you’re ready to admit there’s something between us.”
I roll my eyes. The idea still shoots nervous energy through me, but it’s less sharp lately, overshadowed by my need for him and, admittedly, though I’m not ready to say it, my recent desire to show everyone what he means to me.
That development came as a surprise at Emma’s birthday party, when I found myself gravitating toward Jesse and, more than once, found myself having to stop from touching or kissing him. It’s only gotten worse.
“What’s between us right now is your hard-on,” I say, soft and seductive, trying to shift my hips to graze his.
“You know what I mean,” he says, not rising to the bait, unfortunately, and I groan in defeat once again.
“Every night you make out with me,” I say, sitting up, and Jesse follows. His hair is a tousled mess from my hands, and I’m sure mine looks just as wild.
“Are you unhappy with that?” he asks, and the words sound genuine, but his face is smiling as if he already knows the answer.
“No? Yes? Maybe?” I ask, and he lifts an entertained eyebrow at me. Clearly, he loves my suffering. “Yes.”
“You’re unhappy with that?”
