"Yeah." The word was a growl.
They stumbled out of the truck—Clara's hands were definitely shaking now—and up the path to the lighthouse. Jack kept touching her. Small, insistent touches. His hand pressing firmly at the small of her back, guiding her with a heat that seeped through her shirt. His fingers threading through hers, squeezing just enough to make her knees weaken. Like he needed the contact to anchor himself, to believe this fire between them was real.
Clara knew the feeling all too well—her body hummed with it, every nerve ending alive and begging for more.
She fumbled with the keys, dropping them once, swearing under her breath as they clattered on the stone step. Jack pressed against her from behind, his solid chest to her back, his mouth finding the sensitive curve of her neck. He nipped lightly, then soothed with his tongue, sending shivers cascading through her until she forgot how keys worked entirely.
"You're not helping," she gasped, arching back into him despite herself.
"Not trying to help." His teeth grazed her pulse point, harder this time, drawing a whimper from her lips. "Trying to drive you crazy."
"Mission accomplished," she breathed, her voice trembling as desire coiled tighter in her gut.
Finally—good God, finally—the door swung open. They spilled inside, Clara turning in Jack's arms before he'd even kicked it shut behind them. His back hit the wall with a thud that echoed through the empty space, and she was on him, hands fisted in his shirt, mouth claiming his like she had every right to it—because maybe she did. Maybe they both did, in this stolen moment.
Jack's hands found her waist, yanking her flush against him with a force that stole her breath. She could feel every hard line of his body pressing into hers, the searing heat of him through their clothes, the way his breath hitched when she bit his lower lip, tugging just enough to make him groan deep in his chest.
"Bedroom?" he managed between kisses, his voice strained, lips swollen from hers.
"Too far. Couch." Her words were clipped, urgent.
"Couch works."
They stumbled toward it, a frantic tangle of limbs and desperate want, shedding shoes and jackets along the way. Clara's back hit the cushions first, and Jack followed her down, bracing himself on his forearms so his weight pinned her just right—firm but not crushing.
His hips settled between her thighs, the hard ridge of him grinding against her core through their remaining clothes, and—oh God—the friction sent a bolt ofpleasure straight through her, making her arch up into him with a needy moan.
Jack groaned, dropping his forehead to her shoulder, his body shuddering. "Clara. Jesus. You're killing me here. You're so damn hot."
"If you stop now, I'll murder you," she threatened, half-laughing, half-serious, her nails digging into his back.
He chuckled, breathless and rough, the sound vibrating against her skin. "Wasn't planning to stop. Just trying to... slow down. Make sure you're with me."
"I'm sure." She pulled his face up to meet her eyes, her gaze fierce. "I want this. I want you. All of you."
Something in his expression shifted—went soft and intense all at once, like she'd handed him a gift he didn't deserve. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He kissed her again. Slower this time. Deeper. Like he was savoring her, memorizing the taste of her lips, the way her tongue danced with his. His hands roamed up her sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts through her shirt, teasing the sensitive skin until her breath stuttered and her nipples hardened painfully against the fabric.
Sam had never?—
No. Absolutely not. Sam didn't get to exist in this moment. This was hers. Jack's. Theirs—raw and real and burning.
But her body tensed anyway. Old instincts. Old fears creeping in like shadows.
Jack noticed immediately. Pulled back, his hazel eyes searching her face with concern. "You okay? We can?—"
"Yeah. I just—" Clara forced herself to breathe, to push the ghosts away. "It's been a while. Since I... with anyone. And it's... intense."
Understanding flickered across his face, softening his features. "We can stop. If you're not ready?—"
"I don't want to stop." The words came out fierce, defiant. "I want this. I want you. I'm just... nervous. Which is stupid. I'm thirty-four years old, I shouldn't be nervous about?—"
Jack kissed her. Soft. Gentle. Silencing her spiral with tenderness that made her heart flutter like a teenager with her first crush.
"It's not stupid," he murmured against her lips, his thumb stroking her cheek. "And we go at your pace. Whatever you need. Okay? I'm here for you."
