Page 75 of The Jaded Notes

His.I’m his now.

I mosey out to his kitchen. His place is a fortress.

The air beyond his bedroom is cooler, touched by the scent of leather and something soothing like rain cleansing the area. Daylight reveals what the night keeps in shadow, but it doesn’t soften the edges. It sharpens them.

Floor-to-ceiling glass pulls Paris into the room, the Seine curving in the distance like a ribbon tossed carelessly through the city.

The space is all him—ivory-colored marble tables,brushed steel, precision in every line—but there’s a quiet warmth threaded through it.

A cashmere throw is draped over the sofa as if it’s been waiting for him to come home and snuggle in it. A moss-green rug pooling in sunlight warms the floor where his bare feet might stand.

I drag my fingers along the smooth back of an armchair. The leather heats under my touch, and a memory of the press of his hand at my spine last night staggers through my mind. Goosebumps scatter over my skin.

I shake the thought loose and continue to take in every part of Jax’s private life. The glass balcony doors catch my reflection.

My hair is in a messy bun, his shirt swallows my frame, and I remember the exact way his mouth felt against mine. I can’t get past how much I loved being with him last night.

As I replay last night in my head, I carry on with my first act of making Jax all mine.

The kitchen is immaculate. Black marble veined in silver glints in the morning light, and a crystal decanter throws fractured light across the counter.

I can picture him here with his jacket off and his sleeves rolled. He has coffee in one hand and the weight of the world in the other, but he’s still in control.

And then it hits me—the low rumble of his conversation somewhere down the hall. Smooth and gentle, like he’s speaking with someone who means something to him.

It’s the same voice that had been breaking against my skin moments before it was pulled away to answer that call. I’m not jealous, exactly. It’s something worse.

It’s a reminder that no matter what last night felt like, I can be shut out just as fast as I was let in. I know exactly what it means to stand here.

This isn’t just where he lives; it’s where he exists without witnesses.

No other woman has roamed these floors, leaned against this counter, or crossed from his bed into this room. And still, the fear hums through me.

If I start to belong here, I’ll give him the power to break me when he decides I don’t.

The sound of his voice cuts off, and I wait for him to come and find me. I turn and there he is, barefoot, wearing only dark sweatpants that hang low enough to make my heartbeat trip over itself.

His dark hair is still mussed, like he ran a hand through it mid-call. His beard is short and tightly trimmed. Sunlight drapes across the dark patch of hair on his chest, trailing lower, and I have to force my gaze back up.

“That was a long conversation.” I raise my chin and hook my questing stare with his, hoping he’ll give me more than the surface.

“You seem to have found your way around well without me.” He tosses me a flirty smile, bypassing my comment, and continues toward me.

He doesn’t rush. He moves as if the air parts for him…because it does. Broad shoulders, deliberate strides, and an unsettling stillness in his eyes that makes me feel like he’s already inside my head.

I let him think he is because I already have my own plan. I came in here to start breakfast. Eggs, pancakes, and coffee. Something warm and intentional. It’s similar to the one we shared that past New Year’s Day.

They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, and I’m willing to put the saying to the test. If I want Jax, I’m going to get him one way or another.

And this is my first move in a game I don’t plan to forfeit. The remaining question is, will he?

Chapter Seventeen

JAXON/JAX

Then

The Classy Button-Down Claim & The Caution She Arms Me With