He reached up, brushing a strand of hair away from her face with careful fingers. Jax’s thumb traced her jawline. His mouth didn’t touch her, but she could feel the shape of the kiss waiting there.
“Touch has a memory,” he murmured.
April recognized Keats even through the haze clouding her brain. Her pulse jumped at how easily he wielded it.
“Jax,” April whispered.
She wasn’t sure if it was a warning, a question, or just his name shaped like permission.
His hand slid to the back of her neck, fingers threading into her hair.
“You know what’s funny about poetry?” he said, his lips almost touching hers now. “People think it’s all metaphor. Safe. Abstract.” His other hand found her waist, pulling her closer.
“But sometimes,” Jax continued, his mouth so close she could feel the shape of the words, “a rose is just a rose. And a want is just a want.”
He kissed her.
Not like Caleb. No performance, no running commentary.
This was quieter, more deliberate, like he'd been thinking about it all day and was done pretending he wouldn’t act on it.
April's hands found his shirt, fisting the fabric, and kissed him back.
Jax walked her backward until her legs hit the chaise. The contact tipped her into it, and he came down with her—one hand catching on the back, the other finding her waist, his mouth already on hers."
“The only way to get rid of a temptation…is to yield to it,” he murmured against her mouth.
“Jax,” she said again. This time it was definitely permission.
His next kiss was less careful. His hands slid under the emerald silk, tracing the line of her ribs, her waist, the curve of her hip.
Every touch contemplated.
His mouth stayed on hers even as one hand left her, dipping into his pocket. He broke the kiss only long enough to pull back and meet her eyes, the foil catching the light between them.
"I have rules," he said, meeting her eyes. "Not for you. For me."
April's lips twitched, fighting a smile. "Rules. And you follow them?"
"Yes," Jax said. "These ones I follow.”
He held the condom up. "I don't let 'heat of the moment' become someone else's consequence."
Then he produced a small bottle of lube from his pocket like a magician with one extremely specific trick. "Bodies aren't machines. I refuse to treat discomfort like a romantic subplot."
"You really do carry everything."
"Hope isn't a strategy." Two taps on his phone. A clean lab portal, all negative, date stamped this week. "I keep it current," he said quietly.
April blinked at the screen, then at him. "That's… weirdly responsible for a man who just teleported into the ladies' room."
April showed him hers. "Post-Chad damage control. Apparently I'm very efficient when motivated by spite."
"Birth control?" he asked.
"IUD. Copper. Good for another eight years."
Jax exhaled slowly. "Okay."
