My fingers trace lightly over his forearm following the line of muscle and vein, the dusting of hair. His skin is warm under my touch, and I feel his breathing change. Not asleep anymore.
I should stop. I should pull away. I tilt my head up instead, and his gaze is already on me. Intense. Focused. Like I’m the only thing in the world that matters.
The air between us ignites. I can see the restraint in his expression. The way he’s holding himself still, letting me decide. Giving me every chance to back away. But I don’t want to back away.
I know I told him this couldn’t happen again. I know I’m the one who set the boundaries. I know he deserves better than me constantly changing the rules, pulling him close and then pushing him away.
But right now, with his arm around me and his heart beating under my ear and his eyes on mine like that, I can’t remember why I thought I could resist this.
I rise up slightly, bringing my mouth close to his, and kiss him.
He responds instantly, like he’s been waiting for permission. His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing my cheek. The kiss deepens, and I swing my leg over to straddle him.
His hands slide up my sides, under my shirt, pulling it up until I break the kiss long enough to tug it over my head. I’m in just my bra, and his eyes hit my chest before coming back to my face, checking.
It’s all very, very okay.
I hook my fingers in the hem of his T-shirt and pull it off. Hisskin is warm under my palms, muscles tightening when I slide my hands over his chest. He works my shorts down over my hips, leaving me in my panties, then pulls my bra down so my breasts spill free.
“Fuck, these tits are perfection,” he says, voice low, before his mouth closes around my nipple. His tongue circles the tight bud, then he bites lightly and sucks, and heat flashes through me so fast it almost hurts. He moves to the other side, giving it the same attention while I reach between us, pushing his shorts down and slipping my hand into his boxer briefs. He’s already hard, thick and smooth in my palm, and he groans when I wrap my fingers around him.
His hands know exactly where to touch me. Mine know exactly what makes him swear. It should probably worry me how easy this is now, how fast we find the rhythm of each other again. How right it feels.
I shove that thought away and shift on his lap, lifting up on my knees. I push my panties to the side and guide him to me, sinking down in one slow, greedy slide.
“Fuck, Natalie,” Jake says, head falling back for a second. “You feel so goddamn tight, so warm and wet. I could do this forever.”
A bolt of fear cracks through me at that word, forever, but it dissolves under the next thrust of his hips. I can’t think when we’re like this. When he’s this deep inside me. When every drag of his hands over my skin feels like worship and possession and home all at once.
“You’re so deep,” I breathe. “God, that feels so good.”
“Tell me what you need, Nat.”
“Touch me.”
His hand slides between us, fingers finding me with a certainty that makes my eyes slam shut. Within minutes, everything tightens, the world narrowing down to his body under mine, his thumb circling just right, the rough edge in his voice when he says my name.
We both fall hard and fast together, collapsing together on each other afterward. We stay tangled, and I can feel him starting to soften inside me, my chest still pressed to his as his arms wrap around me, holding me in place. My body feels loose and heavy, boneless. My mind is blissfully quiet for the first time in days.
But reality is already creeping back in.
“I should probably go,” he says, voice roughened by sex and the time of night.
The words land like a punch, even though I know he’s right. Even though I’m the one who created this situation. I’m the one who told him it couldn’t happen again and then kissed him anyway. I’m the one who keeps pulling him close and pushing him away, changing the rules every time he thinks he understands them.
He thinks this is what I want. He thinks leaving is what I need. And maybe it is. Maybe I should let him go, let him protect himself from the mess I’m making of this. But something in my chest cracks at the thought.
“Okay,” I whisper.
I slide off his lap, suddenly shy, and grab my shirt and shorts from the floor. I pull them on quickly while he tugs his boxer briefs and shorts back up and pulls his T-shirt over his head.
I walk him to the door, fingers twisting the hem of my shirt, guilt sitting heavy in my stomach.
“Text me when you get home?” I say, then immediately want to take it back. That’s too girlfriend-y. Too much like I care.
But Jake just smiles. “I will.”
He kisses my forehead and I watch him walk down the path and climb into his car. He looks up, like he’s checking I’m still there, then pulls away from the curb.
