I hum thoughtfully.
His hands slide over my stomach slowly, his movements slow and sure.
I feel every inch of it.
I tilt my head, trying to catch his expression.
“Did you have fun?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says. “But I wanted to come home.”
His voice vibrates low and rough, and my stomach flips.
His mouth brushes the side of my neck again, slow and intoxicating.
“Jake,” I whisper, but there’s no protest in it.
He trails another kiss up the side of my throat. Then another.
He turns me gently so I’m facing him.
His eyes are dark. Open. Honest.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, like it’s an observation he just made.
And then he kisses me.
Slow and deep, deliberate and careful, like I’m something meant to be savored.
My hands find his shoulders automatically. I tug him closer.
He responds immediately, pulling me into his lap so I’m straddling him on the living room floor.
His hands slide down my back, fingers curling at the hem of my shirt.
There’s a pause. A silent question.
I nod.
He lifts the fabric slowly, pushing it over my head. His eyes drag over my skin.
My hands find the hem of his T-shirt. I curl my fingers into the cotton and tug it upward.
He lifts his arms without breaking eye contact, letting me pull it over his head.
When I toss it aside and lay my palms against his bare chest, his skin is warm beneath my touch, solid and steady under my fingers.
He leans in and kisses me again, one hand sliding up my spine, the other resting at my hip.
So achingly tender.
He lowers me onto the rug and hovers over me for a second, brushing a strand of hair out of my face.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
I nod, pulling him down to me.
“Yes.”
