Well.
We’ll deal with that when we must.
Chapter 14
Tippi
We walk back to Jacob’s place after pizza.
When we reach his front door, he fumbles his keys only once this time while picking the right one. Progress. Inside, the familiar monochrome calm of his hallway wraps around us. I kick off my boots, suddenly very aware of just how many times I’ve been here in such a short space of days.
We drift towards the living room as if pulled there by the same tide. He shuts the door behind us, and the air shifts into something less domestic, more charged. Familiar territory for me, and considerably soothing.
His eyes linger on my thighs, up to the hem of my shorts. “I’ve been thinking,” he says, voice low. “About what you said outside earlier. About being honest. About not pretending.” His gaze meets mine. “So I want to be very clear that I w-would like to take your clothes off now, if that’s something you also want.”
I grin, delighted by this more direct version of him. “Look at you. Gold star for my good boy. And yes, that is something Ivery muchwant.”
Relief loosens his shoulders at getting the tone right. He steps closer, hands coming up to frame my face, and kisses me like he’s thanking me for existing.
It occurs to me how much his kisses have changed. They’re still careful, still attentive, still Jacob. But there’s a new undercurrent now, a thread of confidence woven through the hesitancy. He’s not waiting for me to lead every second; he initiates, pulls me closer, nips at my lower lip with a soft, surprised sound when I moan myappreciation.
By the time we make it to the sofa, we’re both breathing hard.
“Bed,” I murmur against his mouth. “From previous shenanigans, you’re too tall for couch acrobatics.”
“Fair point,” he whispers, and then he’s threading our fingers together again and tugging me towards the stairs.
His bedroom is exactly as I remember it: with the bed made with hospital corners, and his glasses case sits next to a worthy looking paperback and a coaster, everything aligned.
It shouldn’t be sexy.
It is, though. Because it’s him. Because this is the ordered space where he unravels for me.
He hesitates by the bed, suddenly shy. “Would you like… um… music? Or silence? Or…”
I slide my arms around his neck. “I’d like you. Everything else is optional.”
“Oh.” His throat works. “Right. Yes. OK.”
We undress each other in a slow, fumbling sort of way that feels strangely intimate. Less frantic than the first time, more exploratory. He peels my top off like he’s unwrapping something rare, eyes going dark when my bra comes into view. I take my time with his buttons, slipping each one through its hole, enjoying the way his chest rises and falls faster under my fingers.
“Still like the bra?” I tease as I reach behind me to unclasp it.
His gaze is molten. “I like everything.” His voice roughens. “Can Itouch you?”
“Always,” I say softly. “You don’t even have to ask, unless I say otherwise. But I like that you still do.”
There’s warmth in his smile besides any carnal heat. “Good to know.” His hands come up, reverent and sure, cupping my breasts, thumbs circling my nipples until they pebble. The low sound he makes when I arch into his touch goes straight between my thighs.
I’m becoming addicted to the way he focuses.
A lot of people touch you while they’re still half in their own heads, thinking about themselves, about performance, about how they look in the moment. Jacob touches like he’s entirely present, like how he looks in the moment is irrelevant, and each new response from my body is data he’s thrilled to collect.
We end up tangled on the bed, skin on skin, his bird tattoo brushing my hip as he braces himself over me. He kisses a line down my throat, across my collarbone, over the swell of my breast.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs against my skin. “I know you hear that all the time, but you really, seriously are.”
Heat blooms in the pit of my stomach. I’ve been called beautiful so often it usually slides off me now, just another transactional descriptor designed to persuade me to grant access. Nothing more significant than ‘blonde’ or ‘American’. Coming from him, though, itlands.Maybe because he says it like he’s slightly baffled I’m letting him see me like this.
