"Good girl," he breathes, something wild and satisfied in his eyes. "You needed that, didn't you?"
"Yes." I needed it so damn bad. I've needed it for the last three years—ever since I walked into Olive's and saw him standing in the kitchen. No amount of touching myself ever eased the ache. No toys ever scratched the itch. Nothing.
He crushes his lips to mine again, kissing me breathless before he pulls back again, his eyes so dark, they're no longer gray. They're black with need. "Good girl," he practically purrs. "You're going to be doing a whole helluva lot more of it tonight."
Before I can even say anything, he wrenches himself away, slamming the door. I fall back against the seat, gasping, trembling. Shaking so hard I think I might vibrate apart at the seams.
This is happening. It's really happening.
Jasper's place isn't far from mine. It's a beautiful old farmhouse with a massive yard and great bones.
"Are you fixing it up?" I ask as he leads me up the steps with his hand firmly locked around mine.
"That's the plan." His keys jingle in his hand. "Figured I'd need something to do now that I'm retired."
I smile at the thought of him retired at his age. He's not even forty yet. It doesn't seem old enough, but he's spent his entire adult life in the Navy. I'm still trying to figure out how to navigate mine.
I think that's one of the reasons I've always been so afraid of him finding out how I feel about him. I just want to exist in my books and my silence and my little bubble where it's safe. Buthe's fought wars, trained sailors, saved lives, taken care of his sister, and carried more responsibility in a single day than I can even fathom. He has his shit together in a way that I don't think I ever will.
He makes it look so easy, exactly as if those broad shoulders of his were meant to fit the width of the world. He never stumbles under its weight or falters. He just keeps moving, in a way that seems effortless. I know it's not. I know he probably fights battles and has demons that I'll never even begin to comprehend… but he has this ability to make it look so easy.
His quiet strength is so beautiful to me. I envy it. It's certainly not something I've ever had. I've always been a mess of fears and anxiety, trapped in a net I can't seem to fight my way free from, no matter how hard I try.
"Are you going to take a job somewhere?" I ask, curious…nervous. I'm not sure I'll survive if he decides to leave again.
He turns to look at me, the keys in the lock. "You worried about me leaving again, baby girl?"
"No, I just…" I swallow, glancing down at my feet. And then I remember what he said in the truck, about not hiding from him when I tell him my secrets, so I drag my gaze back to his. "Maybe a little."
His lips curve up at the corners, his hand brushing my cheek. "I love it when you use that voice of yours, Sarah. I haven't heard nearly enough of it."
My heart stutters with pride. "I…um…I guess I struggle to talk to people. To men." I lick my lips. "To you."
"Why is that?"
Maybe I could have talked to other men if I'd tried. But I didn'twantto talk to them. I didn't want to give them pieces of myself that I couldn't even give to Jasper. I wanted to save my words for him and the silent hope that, maybe one day, I'd be brave enough to give him all of them.
"I don't know," I whisper instead of voicing that truth. It feels too big, like too much, too soon. He's been fantasizing about me for three years, but I've been head over heels in love with him for that long, desperately trying to keep it hidden so I didn't lose Olive or him or my own mind.
It's hard to form words when you're terrified you'll say the wrong ones, and everyone will know that you want the one thing you shouldn't—that you're in love with someone who feels like they're miles out of your league. It's hard to form them when you're afraid the one person who matters will see you—really see you—and realize that you're a quivering, terrified little mess, just making it up as you go.
His lips kick up into a grin, his expression soft. He leans down, brushing his lips against my forehead. "You do," he rumbles, "but that's okay. I'll let you pretend you don't. At least for now."
His hand settles on the small of my back, and I shiver, pretty sure he's going to wreck me in ways so permanent not even the enormity of the universe can compete.
Some small, quivering part of me hopes I brand him the exact same way, just leave an indelible mark on his soul that he never, ever forgets, no matter what.
He leads me inside, the door closing behind us. Like the outside of the house, the inside is old and worn, in need of a little TLC, but with so much potential. The massive fireplace in the corner was probably gorgeous in another life. I hope it will be again someday.
His living room is mostly put together, but there's a small stack of cardboard boxes in the corner, waiting to be broken down. I have a feeling that stack contained all of his worldly possessions. He isn't a man who has ever needed much, not a minimalist, just a SEAL with a duty to his country and a steady stream of shipping orders.
I tremble again when I feel him press up against me from behind, his body hot and hard. I want to turn and burrow into him, just melt into him until I forget that I'm even supposed to breathe without his scent in my lungs.
Instead, I melt back against him, groaning at the way he catches me, one arm lashed around my waist, the other tugging my hair aside. His beard scratches the side of my throat and the sensitive flesh of my bare shoulder, right before his lips follow the same path.
"Jasper," I moan, leaning into him.
His teeth scrape my skin, and I moan again.
