Oh. God.
He steps back, letting go of my waist, but I manage not to tip over. He takes my hand in his and leads me past the guest room, which is set up for painting with all the furniture moved to the center of the room with plastic tarps covering it. There are two cans of paint and some trays and rollers in the far corner by the closet. I feel a flicker of disappointment that we might actually paint tonight. But he leads me past that room, down the hall and into the master bedroom.
The sun is setting through the oversize window, throwing streaks of gold and pink across the walls. The only light on is a weird rocklike thing on the corner of his night table. It’s glowing a yellow-orange, adding to the ethereal feeling in the room. His bed is made. It’s huge. A California king platform bed wrapped in distressed leather. The comforter is simple white, but there’s a dark graycable-knit throw across it that matches the pillowcases, except they’re silky, probably like the sheets. This is a bed meant for one thing: fucking. It’s a crazy thought, but it’s accurate.
His hands are on my hips, and he gently pushes me into the room. “You smell so great. Different, but good.”
“Different?”
“When we were eighteen, you smelled like coconut and vanilla,” he whispers against my neck. “Like suntan lotion and ice cream.”
I smile. “Coconut body butter and vanilla shampoo. I was addicted to both.”
“Now you smell like flowers and citrus,” Jude says, his breath tickling the side of my neck. “Still good, just different.”
“Good?” I repeat the word as he moves from behind me to beside me. I turn my head to look at him. His eyes are clear and the most incredible, opulent blue, almost ombre in the way they get lighter toward the edges.
He leans in, lips pulling apart slowly, tongue gliding over his bottom lip for a second. “The scent still makes my mouth water and my dick hard, so maybe ‘great’ would be a better word.”
Some might consider Jude’s words crass or foul-mouthed, and maybe they are, but they make me wet. His one hand leaves my waist and the other slips lightly over my ass, and then it’s gone too. He walks over to a leather chair in the corner of the room. There’s a small pile of clothing there. It’s the only thing out of place in the whole room, and I wonder if Jude’s a neat freak.
“I figured you could change into this, so you don’t get paint on your dress.” He holds up the T-shirt. It’s got the San Francisco Thunder logo on the front, and when he turns it around, it’s his name and number on the back.
“Are we really going to paint?”
“Would you rather do something else?” I nod. His smile grows again. “Tell me what.”
“You’re the bold one, not me,” I replyas a hot tingle creeps up my cheeks.
“That’s not true.” He laughs lightly and walks closer. God, I hope he touches me again. “You were the boldest, most sexually aware human being I had ever known.”
“Some things change,” I say, because I know that’s how it seemed to a seventeen-year-old virgin, but now…I feel shy and unsure, and all I can think about is how much I crave the feel of his lips on mine again.
He reaches up and brushes my hair, skimming his fingers through it. “So change back.”
“It’s not easy.” My voice doesn’t sound like my voice. It’s softer and yet rougher at the same time.
He stops skimming my hair with the back of his hand and wraps his hand gently but possessively around the back of my neck. “Yeah, but it’s worth it. Tell me what you want.”
“I want to fuck you.”
He smiles for a fleeting moment before his mouth crashes down on mine.
16
Jude
Everything falls away. Time, space, my thoughts, the world. It all dissolves with the first velvety touch of her lips. This is finally going to happen. She’s finally going to be mine. I immediately reach around her back and start to lower the zipper on her dress. She’s gripping my shoulders, and then her hands move down, over my chest and across my stomach, until her fingers find the hem of my shirt and slip under.
She lets out the tiniest, sweetest little moan when she makes contact with my bare skin, and it makes the base of my hard cock tingle. Jesus, this girl is still perfection. Her hands move up, exploring and taking my shirt with her. I’ve got her zipper down to her lower back, and then I too find bare skin. Her back is smooth and warm, and I trace the line of her spine upward as my lips move from her mouth to her neck, and she tips her head back to give me access.
My tongue skims a path down the elegant curve of her neck, and my hands push her dress off her shoulders. It drops all the way down, past the curve of her hips to the ground. She’s in a black silk bra and a white lace thong. Her skin is tanned, her stomach is taut and her breasts are full, and I want to put my lips on every part of her—sucking and tasting and marking her.
She’s got my shirt up to my chest, her fingers still exploring my skin, her thumb skimming my nipple. I reach up and grab the back of my shirt and pull it over my head and off. As the shirt hits the floor, though, so does my stomach. The uncomfortable feeling is instantly followed by a wave of nausea so strong I have to step back. Her head snaps forward, her face a mask of confusion, but when her eyes land on me she starts to look concerned. “Jude. You’re a weird color. Are you okay?”
I want to answer her, but I am scared to open my mouth right now, because another wave of nausea is cresting inside me. What the fuck is happening? She says my name again, but I barely hear it as I blow by her and straight into my bathroom. Swinging the door closed behind me, I pray it stays shut, but I don’t have time to check. I only have time to drop to my knees and lift the seat before I literally lose my lunch.
Ten minutes later I finally think the mass exodus has stopped. There’s a tentative knock on the door. “Jude?”
