Nuclear Heat (Firework Girls #4) (11 page)

I’ve revealed myself yet again. He sees my fear and longing for him and there is no hiding.

It seems to fuel something in him. He looks as hungry for me as I am for him. My breasts are heaving as he tears off his shirt. I’ve seen his chest a million times. It’s almost as familiar to me as his face. But this is different. Everything’s different. It’s Jack, but
more
.

He reaches under my hips and grabs the waistband of my pants. I immediately raise my hips, and he tears my sweats and panties off in one, hurried motion.

His hardness is straining against his jeans. He unbuttons his fly and releases his cock in a flash and I wonder how in the fuck I’ve never known until now how well-endowed he is.

The only reaction I have is to exhale sharply, because there’s no time for anything else. He pushes his jeans to his knees but doesn’t take the time to get up and take them off all the way. He gives me a look that tells me I’m about to discover just what Jack can do with that cock and then he’s on me again, pushing his mouth hard on me. I’m matching his every move, frantic for him.

The tip of his cock finds my entrance like a heat-seeking missile, and he takes me hard and fast. Jack fills my slick channel, stretching me and turning that blaze inside me into an inferno. Just when I thought this was already more than a person could take.

We moan together and he rides me hard, my entire body rocking with him.

Oh my god, oh god.

I’m panting, overcome. I didn’t know... I didn’t know it could be like this. Every inch his cock moves inside me stirs me up higher and higher. I’m clinging to his bare back, his muscles hard and flexing beneath my arms. He urgently squeezes one breast through my cami, then frantically lifts up the fabric to expose my chest and squeezes it again. He’s sucking on my neck and shoulder and jaw. My mouth is working soundlessly with pleasure and shock and desire and wonder. Holy god. My heart is helpless against this.

We kick into a higher gear. More intense. More desperate. More frantic as he works me faster and my body opens to him like I’ve never opened to anyone. My pussy clamps down on his hard cock and I think I’m going to come undone. He groans low and long in my ear. He almost sounds in pain. I’m panting and whimpering as ecstasy spikes in my body.

Oh god. Omigod.

“Jack,” I breathe, biting it out and throwing my head back. He tucks into me, holding his head against my neck as I continue to arch back. Tsunami Jack crashes against me, and I climax hard. It’s almost frightening. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. It’s the most intense pleasure I’ve ever felt, tearing through me in one massive wave after another, and then Jack is thrusting helplessly as he empties into me.

The sound he makes only makes my heart yearn for him more.

God, darling.

Through it all, I’m still clinging to him, convulsing and wanting him more than I knew a person could want anyone.

And then we’re released. Dropped, more like. The churning storm inside me folds in on itself and recedes, leaving me stunned.

Slick with sweat, our bodies slow. Then become still. Our vise-like holds on one another soften slightly. Except for our labored breathing, we aren’t moving at all.

By all my normal standards, what we just did could be called tame. No foreplay. No sexy lingerie. No changing positions. No slapping. No dirty talk. All Jack did was take me in the missionary position and
rock me to the fucking core.

And at the same time, I have no idea what this was for him. Was it just a spur-of-the-moment thing? That moment of passion I’ve always heard can happen between two friends even when it doesn’t mean anything? Or was it—

Then I remember. With Jack still in my arms, and still in me and all around me... that’s when I remember.

I pinch my eyes closed.

Oh god.

I’m barely breathing now. I don’t even need to look at him to know he’s remembered, too. I feel it in his body and know it by the way he’s suddenly holding his breath. Oh god, what have we done?

He slowly, so slowly lifts off me. He doesn’t look at me. I can’t breathe. I look at his profile and that’s when my heart breaks again. Here’s another expression I’ve never seen on him, dripping with pain and guilt and regret. Fuck.

He slowly crawls backwards, sliding out of me and leaving me feeling empty, still not looking at me. As he pulls away and goes to his knees, I pull my top down over my breasts and draw my legs together. I can’t take my eyes off his face.

He slowly hitches up his pants, fastens the button, and pulls up the zipper. He pinches his eyes shut and brings his hands to his face, rubbing them hard over his forehead and into his hair where he grips huge handfuls.

I want to comfort him, but what in the hell do I say?

My wits slowly start coming back to me. We didn’t even use a condom. God, I didn’t even think about it. We’ve talked about this kind of thing before and I know Jack
always
uses a condom. I always insist on it too, even though I’m on birth control.

What. The fuck. Were we thinking?

But that’s not the worst part. Not by a mile. Jack is not over there regretting the lack of a condom. I can only imagine how horrible he’s feeling, because I practically feel like
I
cheated on her. In a way, I did. I knew he was off limits. He’s hers, not mine.

I forgot. I forgot he doesn’t belong to me.

He gets heavily to his feet and I pull up into a sit, bare legs tucked together to the side, reaching for my sweats. He turns away and I fumble them on, getting into a weak stand myself. My skin still remembers the feel of Jack’s touch, but it’s slipping away from me. I feel cold and my legs start to shiver.

He grabs his shirt from the floor and works it over his body. Then he looks... lost. He paces to the couch.

“I’m sorry,” I say, and I am. No matter what happens next, Jack’s the bad guy and someone’s heart is broken.

He looks at me then. Our eyes meet, and as so often happens, we’re joined together in understanding. I look away. I’ve seen before how men look at the woman they’ve strayed with, after they regret it. I don’t want to see Jack looking at me that way.

Forget someone’s heart being broken. All kinds of hearts will be broken.

He slowly comes back around the table, dully pulls me into his arms against his chest, and holds me there. I circle my arms around his waist, even though I’m afraid I know what this is. I feel the tears welling up but I force them down. I don’t want to cry again. I can do that after. Right now I try to hold on to every detail so I can keep them in my mind later: how his arms are wrapped around me, how I’m nestled inside of him, the way his back feels so firm and warm against my hands, the smell of the man I know so well, and the tender way he’s holding me, even if it is darkened with regret.

I’m still in my bare feet, but Jack’s dressed and even has his shoes on. “I have to go,” he says quietly.

I nod against his chest.

Then he plants a gentle kiss on top of my head, pulls away, and leaves without a word, the door clicking softly behind him.

I don’t think I’ve ever hated myself more than I do in this moment.

I don’t call the girls. I don’t talk to a soul. I pick up my phone a hundred times to text Jack, but I never do because I don’t know what to say.

He doesn’t text me either.

I wonder why we don’t have memorials for this kind of thing. Because losing Jack feels like a death.

I spend the next few days at work avoiding people as much as I can so I don’t have to keep saying “Nothing” when people ask me “What’s wrong?” Ashley and Isabella dropped in once, but they didn’t stay long. I’m inconsolable. They don’t know what happened, so they think I’m just heartbroken over Jack.

They’re not wrong.

For the record, I’ve been right this entire time: love
sucks
.

I stay late at the office because I don’t want to be home but I don’t know what else to do. I’ve been working so much and am so ahead of schedule on my projects, I’m going to be screwed by the middle of next week when I’m just fucking sitting around twiddling my thumbs.

I don’t care.

The girls are busy this evening with one of our group texts. Chloe mentions she hasn’t heard from Jack in a while and he’s not returning her messages. She has some sort of website question for him. The other girls say they don’t know what he’s up to either, but this is really nothing new. He doesn’t chat with them every day like he used to do with me. So they do what they always do when they want to know what Jack’s up to. They ask me.

I don’t answer, trusting the conversation will move on to something else, which it does. Ashley says something about a neighbor bringing over a huge box of peaches from their tree, so she’s going to divvy it up and bring some round to each of us. I don’t reply to that or anything else. I focus on the logo I’m designing instead. It’s the only thing I can do that kind of, sort of deadens the pain.

I don’t know how I’m going to do it, but I expect I’ll spend weeks, months, years, trying to grieve over Jack.

What I don’t expect is coming home from work to see his truck parked out front.

I stop right in the middle of the road. He’s not in his truck, which means he’s in my house. I’m gripping the wheel with both hands, staring at his truck, listening to my car idle in the middle of the empty street.

I take a deep breath, then slowly pull into the drive. When I go through the front door, the living room is empty and the house is quiet.

I shut the door behind me. “Jack?”

He comes into view from the kitchen, stopping in the doorway. He’s got a half-eaten sandwich in his hand. No plate. Dripping crumbs on my floor.

He looks at me and I can only look back. God, he looks like hell. Handsome and making my heart ache, but beat to hell.

He glances at the sandwich. “Sorry,” he says soberly. “I’ve been here awhile. I got hungry.”

I’m still standing by the door. “It’s okay.”

“I thought maybe... you saw my truck and didn’t want to come in.”

Yeah. Kind of. “I had to work late.”

“Ah.” He looks a little relieved, but still sober. “Want me to make you one?” he asks, lifting the sandwich slightly in question.

What are you doing here, Jack?

“Um...” I say, in response to his question. I don’t ever seem to be hungry these days, but I have a headache from the lack of food so I should probably eat. I shrug. “Okay.”

He disappears back inside the kitchen. I stand there for a moment, listening to him open and shut the cupboard door, set a plate on the counter, open the fridge.

I slowly walk into the kitchen. He’s at the island, the accoutrements of a sandwich laid out before him. I watch him spread mayonnaise on a piece of bread. There’s something he wants to say, but I have no idea what and he’s clearly not ready to say it yet. I don’t know what the hell to say either. I just want to undo all of it and get my friend back.

I quietly set my purse on the counter, followed by my keys. As I take a seat at the bar, I’m watching his every move. As he spreads mustard on the other piece of bread—just how I like it—I watch his hands, his arms. I look at his chest and face. I ache.

He adds ham, tomato, and Swiss cheese, then places the finished product in front of me.

“Thanks,” I say. It’s the last thing we say for quite some time. I eat my sandwich and he finishes his and we don’t say a word. We exchange a few brief glances. I can’t read any of them.

Everything’s kind of broken down and I don’t know what to do.

By the time I’m done eating, he’s put everything away, wiped down the counter, and loaded the dishes in the dishwasher, including my plate.

Only then does he lean back against the counter and look at me for longer than two seconds. My heart starts in with the goddamned longing again. Why is he here? Why did he have to come here and be live and in person right in my kitchen? He’s undoing all the work I’ve been trying to do to forget him and when he leaves I’ll have to start all over again.

Not that I’d gotten very far.

He finally opens his mouth to speak

“I...” He hesitates and I’m all of a sudden very afraid to hear what he’s going to say. “I...”

What, Jack? What?

He straightens and frowns and breaks eye contact. “I think there’s a game on.”

I blink in surprise, then watch as he retreats into the living room, out of my line of sight once more. I hear him sit on the couch and turn on the TV.

I walk across the kitchen toward the living room, my work heels clicking on the tiles. I enter the living room. There he is, right in the middle of the couch, staring at the TV. I look to see who’s playing only to find I don’t care.

I’m really too exhausted for any of this. If Jack wants to sit on my couch and watch TV, at this exact moment I just don’t care.

I slip out of my heels, bend down and pick them up with one hand, and pad down the hall to my bedroom.

I toss my shoes in the closet where they land with an unceremonious thud. I remove my silky neck scarf and hang it on its hook next to the others. I remove my earrings and slide out the drawer to my jewelry tower, tossing the little silver baubles in their place as well.

Jack is in my living room. On my couch.

Maybe I’ll just stay here.

I realize I’ve been staring at the open drawer. I slide it shut. When I turn, Jack’s right there in the doorway, watching me.

I startle, putting my hand over my heart. “God, Jack.”

“Sorry.”

This time, when he looks at me and our gaze holds, I get that feeling I’m used to getting, the feeling I know and understand him.

“Oh, honey,” I say sadly.

“I told Emily,” he says.

I nod in understanding. “Yeah. I knew you would.”

“I... told her that I’m... really sorry.”

My heart starts thumping painfully in my chest, little butterflies of panic banging against its walls. “Are you going to try to work things out?”

He furrows his brows at me, seemingly surprised by my question. “No.”

The panicked butterflies start to settle down but I’m still afraid of something. I don’t even know what.

“I probably wasn’t straight with you about how I was feeling about Emily,” he says. “It wasn’t... I shouldn’t have been with her to start with.”

Why not? I want to ask, but he goes on.

“Anyway, she’s not the kind of woman to put up with that shit.”

Good for her,
I think. It’s what he would’ve said too, if the situation were different.

“And—” His expression grows more pained, and he’s looking at me differently now. Our eyes lock. I don’t know if it’s desire I see in him, or if I’m just wanting to see that. Whatever it is, it’s all mixed up with regret. That I can see plain as day. “Look, I... I really hate that I did that,” he says, and my heart clenches in sympathy. Then he starts to come toward me, slowly, one step at a time. My body starts to go into alert. My heart starts to pump harder.

He’s shaking his head, coming closer. “But I’m not as sorry as I know I should be.”

There’s the string. Pulling, pulling, pulling.

Wait.
I’m standing my ground. Or trying to. I don’t know what this is.

“It was the worst thing I’ve ever done to anyone,” he says. Closer, closer. Larger than life. I’m stuck to the floor. “It was so stupid,” he says, right in front of me now.

We’re not touching at all, but somehow, I feel him anyway. I can’t look away from his eyes.

“And it was just... selfish,” he continues, tightly. “All I was thinking about was how much I wanted you. Even the way I took you—” I feel a rush of heat, remembering exactly how he took me, “—even that was selfish because I wasn’t making sure you were...” he pauses for the briefest moment, then spits it out, “you know,
getting
there or thinking about protection or thinking about
anything
.”

“Me either,” I whisper.

He puts his hands on my upper arms and that’s it. My body starts to purr.
God
.

“All I could think about was how much I needed you,” he says. “I needed you so much.”

I don’t know exactly if he means need me the way guys need girls, their bodies taking over everything, or needs me the way I need him. Because even though I’m not supposed to, I do need him. I need him more than I’ve ever needed anyone, and as we hover here, looking at one another, I think he has to know it.

“I still need you,” he says quietly.

His mouth slowly dips down toward mine. I am once again helpless to resist. I thoughtlessly go up on tiptoe to meet him. When his lips press gently against mine, I’m wishing I were lying down again, because I’m nearly knocked over. I bring my hands to his sides, hanging on.

His hands travel from my arms to my back, never leaving my body. He gently pulls me to him and I go where he wants me to go, because I am his to control. Our bodies press together, chest to hip to knee. I lean against him, knees softening, and he holds me tighter.

He pulls away just enough to look at me with those deep brown eyes of his.
God, Jack.

I should ask him what he’s thinking and what this means but I don’t want to talk. I want Jack to kiss me. I want him to take me. I need him to. I slowly slide my hands under the hem of his shirt, softly touching his skin. My blood is coursing through my body. I look at him tentatively, asking.

There’s a half second pause, then he bends his knees slightly and lifts me in his arms. My heart swoops up and I let out a little gasp, reflexively wrapping my legs around his chest. As many times as Jack’s picked me up, it’s never been like this. My god, already he’s sweeping me downstream again. Tsunami Jack.

He gives me that heated look and I try to keep my wits about myself. I lean in to kiss him and that’s when I know it’s a good thing he’s holding me. No way could I stand on my own two feet. I’m tumbling away, right here in Jack’s arms.

His arms tighten around me as we open to each other. Not like the hard, desperate kisses from before, this is a softer, exploring kiss. It still takes me from hot to blazing in a matter of moments. Then it is hard. And it is desperate. He turns and carries me toward the bed and I respond by holding him tighter, indicating my approval of this plan.

When we reach the bed, he sets me on the mattress on my knees, facing him. He’s standing in front of me. Panting, we lift the hem of each other’s shirts at the same time. I remove his first, then lift my arms so he can remove mine. His eyes sweep over my breasts, then he cups me with both hands, over the black lace of my bra. I let out a shaky exhalation. Everything he does to me is like lightning.

I put my hands on his bare chest. His skin is hot to the touch. Keeping one hand on my breast, he reaches around and unhooks my bra quicker than I can do it. The straps slide off my shoulders and the material slips off my breasts. He exhales in appreciation, glancing at my face as he tosses the bra aside, then dips down and takes me into his mouth. I gasp and grab the hair on the back of his head. I’m gripping his shoulder with my other hand and he still has me in one arm, pulling me in closer by my lower back.