My brain was so resistant to the idea that I couldn’t put a name on it. I was afraid the second I defined what was happening, I would jinx it to fail.
Maybe that was completely neurotic and fictional, but I couldn’t help it. Every time Jonah kissed me, it felt like a fantasy. Every time he touched me, I had to convince myself it wasn’t make-believe. And now, in his apartment, I wanted to pinch myself to make sure it was real.
This space was so familiar to me. I’d been here a hundred times before. For pre-game drinks, for parties, for hangouts, to pick him up if I was driving, to decompress after a long night out, to play Scrabble on a Sunday afternoon, Cards Against Humanity on a night in with my brothers, to referee FIFA tournaments, to read books side by side, to exchange bottles of whiskey and stories and life.
The more I thought about how much this man meant to me, how much our friendship meant to me, the more I sank into this new, physical, fun, sweet, sexy side of us, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to untangle myself quite as easily as the first time if things went south.
This would end in beauty or utter disaster. But mainly, I didn’t want it to end at all.
“Drink?” Jonah suggested.
“Sure.” We walked into his kitchen, and for the first time ever, I noticed how different our styles were. Where mine was full of color and flowers and cutesy pieces, Jonah’s was all simple stainless steel and bare necessities. For a man who did pretty well for himself, he was quite the minimalist.
He walked over to his counter where his whiskey bottles were on display, as well as two clean tumblers just waiting to be used. He poured us two fingers of his favorite Japanese whiskey brand and held them up.
“Rocks?” he asked.
“Yes, please.”
He pulled a tray of perfectly clear, gigantic ice cubes from his freezer. He was very proud of his clear ice cube system, and these had turned out perfectly. Apparently, the trick to ice cubes was more complicated than a normal person would assume. While I loved all things whiskey, I wasn’t quite as fanatical about it as Jonah.
And I was okay with that. Even if he wasn’t.
He added a cube to my tumbler but left his plain. Then he handed my glass over, and we both sighed around our first sip.
“This is good,” I told him. The slow burn followed the drink down, warming me from the inside out.
“Mmm,” he agreed, then set his glass down on the counter and walked across the room to me. Pulling me into his arms, he said, “This is better.”
His mouth found mine, and he tasted like whiskey and satisfaction. I set my glass down too and wrapped my arms around his neck. Jonah’s hands landed on my waist and tugged me tightly against him.
We kissed in a familiar dance. His pillow-soft lips moved and tasted and memorized mine. While I did the same to him. And then his tongue—hot and slow and so wicked. He trailed kisses over my jaw, nibbled on my earlobe until I was squirming and gasping, and then sucked his way down my neck.
My hands slid over his chest, feeling every bump and dip of his impressive muscles until I found the hem of his shirt. I needed his skin, the intimacy that waited just beneath his clothing, all of him. I needed Jonah Mason more than I wanted to admit.
His skin was smooth and hard beneath my touch. I loved the way he flinched as my fingertips brushed over his ribs, how his fast puff of breath indicated he was ticklish—a weakness I struggled to reconcile with the masculine man I knew him to be.
He returned the favor. Hands beneath my worn Craft T-shirt I’d tied at the hem so it fit tightly, he tugged on the knot until it pulled free. Then my too-big T-shirt was gone, on the floor somewhere behind me.
His turn. I tugged his shirt over his head, enjoying every inch of hot skin on my way. Then we were chest to chest. Heart to heart. His body tangled with mine until I wasn’t sure where he ended, and I began.
“Bedroom?” he murmured against my lips.
“Yes,” I said on a dreamy sigh.
His bedroom was the one place I hadn’t spent much time in. He always kept the door closed whenever I was over, and although I’d used his bathroom once or twice during parties, I never allowed myself to linger.
Was I always curious about what Jonah’s personal space would hold? Absolutely. Which was why I never gave myself the freedom to snoop. Over the past ten years, in my determination never to fall for him again, certain things had to remain off-limits, or my heart wouldn’t have had the stamina.
Whether he made his bed or left it rumpled. Whether clothes found the hamper or got lost on the floor. Whether his book piles next to his bed were just for show or dogeared like I expected.
Did I sometimes wonder about those things? I mean, I was only human. How could I not?
Did I imagine him curled up on his big bed with the practical navy blue comforter and exactly two pillows, clothes neatly tossed in the hamper, bathroom spotless... sometimes? Did I have fantasies of him reading in bed before he fell asleep, the only light in the whole apartment from his bedside lamp? Shirtless. In nothing but sweatpants and reading glasses...
Ahem. Not that I would ever admit that out loud to anyone.
So this invited look inside his bedroom made me almost giddy with anticipation. It wasn’t only what was going to happen inside the room, but the room itself.
