Vertical Lines (The Vert Series Book 1) (18 page)

“Why?” he asks. “Why are you scared, Jordan? Why are you unsure?”

“Because my whole life has been an instruction manual. There has always been a plan, an outline, an expectation of how things would go. With you, none of that exists.” Swallowing, I step forward another inch, my head tilting to look up at him. “In the past month, you’ve taught me, shown me, liberated me, and still, there are times I want to shy away—times when I think it would be easier to be that doll again, just so I didn’t have to think and feel and care so much.”

“How can you do that?” he asks. There is no condemnation in his voice; shame heats my face nonetheless. For someone like Brooks, feeling is what he does. He can’t help it. He might stand back and observe people, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel for them. Every time he picks up his brush or his camera, every time he transposes someone’s emotions into a piece of art, he’s feeling for them.

“The feelings you bring out—the ones I have for you… if I failed at this—sex, intimacy,” I clarify, cheeks heating even more. “I couldn’t stand it. What we have? It’s more than I’ve ever had, greater than anything. What if I can’t be who you need? What if I’m incapable of staying strong? If I lose what I feel now… if what you feel for me, however limited, disappears… I don’t think I can take that chance.”

My body is trembling, my knees shaking and my legs threatening to give out. I have stripped myself bare for the first time. Standing here in front of the man who has both enraged and enlivened me, I have bared my soul as I have to no other person. I hate that my words had to be weak—the admission that I’m afraid to be without him sounding needy instead of brave.

Now I stand an inch from him with no more words, waiting. I don’t know what I want, but I do know, however weak, I need him to take the lead, to give me a reprieve from being in charge, because I am in so far over my head, I can’t even see the shoreline.

Brooks doesn’t say anything; his ability to be silent is more than unnerving. I try to stay as still as he is, but my beating heart and rapid breaths give me away. His eyes travel down and then back up before he steps a little closer. We’re less than an inch apart, my neck arched, head tilted back so I can see his eyes.

And then he reaches behind him and grips the neck of that threadbare T-shirt, pulling it forward and over his head until it’s dangling from his fingertips; his bare chest is smooth, thick with muscle, and so close to me. My trembling doubles, but I don’t back down.

I cross my arms and reach for the hem of my silk Michael Kors top, though my breath has started coming in pants. Brooks takes my hands and leans down, stopping me when his lips play over mine.

“Trust me,” he says. My eyes snap to his. He says it again. “Trust me,” and then he’s loosening my fingers until my arms hang at my sides. His fingers glide down from my elbows to my hands, then reach in until they’re at my hips. Smoothing them back up, he gathers the fabric of my shirt, bringing it up my sides. I lift my arms at his urging, my eyes never leaving his, not even after he’s pulled the material off and dropped it to the floor.

I’m standing in front of a man—
Brooklyn
, the most beautiful, physical man I’ve ever known—in my pale-pink bra and pegged jeans. Our skin is so close I can feel the heat from his. Before too many thoughts form in my head—bringing fears with them—I feel his lips at my shoulder, the base of my neck, behind my ear. His hands glide around my rib cage, sinking into each small bump before winding around my back, where his dexterous fingers unclasp the lacy material. I stiffen instinctively, but Brooks is there to sooth, his hands stroking the newly bared skin, his lips and tongue gentle and constant on my neck, the shell of my ear, my shoulders, until I’m too engrossed in him to feel anything else.

The thin straps slip down my arms and the bra falls to the floor. I expect there to be a flurry of motion now—grabbing, stroking, pulling. Instead, Brooks strokes those hands up my back and around my shoulders, cupping either side of my neck, his thumbs stroking the underside of my jaw as he tilts my head and brings his lips to mine.

This kiss is different.

Before, it was heat, urgency, a fire burning out of control and only getting stronger. Now, I’m floating; my whole body is weightless, languid, swept away by the current, happy to go where Brooklyn leads it. His tongue dips inside and teases mine, retreating before I can respond—teeth nipping my bottom lip.

When he pulls back, I barely have my eyes open and focused before he’s slipping his shirt over my head and letting it fall down over my torso, stopped by his hands at the zipper of my jeans.

He doesn’t say anything, only stares at me, his thumb and forefinger finagling that button until it releases. Next is the zipper—our eyes still locked as he lowers it—the small scrape of metal teeth barely audible over the pounding of my heart. Both hands on my hips now, he eases his thumbs in between the denim and my hips, pushing down until the jeans fall to the floor on their own.

I step out of them at his urging, and then I stand there in his worn out shirt that’s slipping off one shoulder and skimming around my thighs, my lace panties the only thing beneath. My hand is in his. He tugs it gently, pulling me over to his bed and stopping at the edge.

Angling his body toward mine, he takes my other hand in his and brings both to his lips.

“Let me show you what I see—what you do to me… how you make me feel.”

I nod. Everything in me feels fuzzy, weighted, like when he kissed me, but oddly electric, a live wire that’s waking up after being depleted of energy for so long. I’m not scared though, not even when Brooks picks me up and lays me in the middle of the bed, balancing on his knees and shifting the comforter around me until he is satisfied.

He leans back and looks down at me, taking my hands one at a time and kissing each of them before situating one and then the other over my head. His touch… it’s so gentle. Since the first night we met, I’ve become used to his brashness, his demands and often brutal honesty. It’s part of his appeal, but this side of him, this gentle, good, loving side is what sends me over the edge.

I
love
Brooklyn Novak.

He must read the shock on my face, the terror, because his lips are on mine again, slow and sure and lovely. Fear and uncertainty fall away, and I allow him to consume me. He pulls back mere centimeters, placing another small kiss on my lips.

“Stay.” I nod my head on his pillow, my eyes tracking his movements when he leaves the bed and starts gathering things from around the room, a sketch pad and a wooden box of pencils, his old rolling stool.

Music clicks
on
and floods from the speakers, immediately muted, and then brought back at a lower volume. I recognize the sound as jazz, and another facet of Brooklyn is opened to me.

The scrape of the wheels over the tile isn’t loud; still, my muscles tense when I see Brooks with his pad and camera seated a few feet away from the foot of the bed, watching me.

“Trust me?” I don’t miss that he asks me this time, giving me back the power I relinquished earlier. I want to shake my head
no
because I’m a girl whose mother drilled into her at an early age what the consequences of reckless decisions can be; a girl who understands rash choices lead to unnecessary gossip and unforeseen outcomes. Wearing his shirt, lying in Brooklyn’s bed while he stares at me with a camera—this feels like one of those reckless situations she was talking about.

Only, I’m all in.

Brooks’s eyes are steady on mine, his form almost blacked out by the windows filled with the dying sunset behind him. The only artificial light in the room comes from the small lamp on his drawing table. He doesn’t have a shirt on, his bare feet are propped on the rungs of the stool and everything I see makes me feel something I never have before, but don’t want to lose—something so powerful, it overwhelms me as much as it fills me.

The pulsing in my body isn’t from tense muscles anymore; it’s from the look of him as he looks at me—like I’m someone. Someone to him.
Someone deserving
. No, this isn’t reckless. Whatever does or doesn’t happen tomorrow won’t change the fact that tonight, here and now, this is right.

“I trust you.”

Chapter 28

Brooks

The way she looks right now—her fall of sunset-colored hair tumbled around her, long limbs made golden by the filtered light, warm against the white comforter. Her pink nipples pebbled under the barely-there material of my shirt.

I knew she was sheltered. Isn’t that what our relationship is about? I give her adventure, she gives me back my art. In the past month, I’ve seen her break out of her shell, become emboldened by her own choices and the knowledge of who she can be when she puts her mind to it. It’s been amazing, inspiring… enticing. And still, I could never have guessed the level of her innocence.

I was almost certain she’d slept with the cardboard cutout we met at the beach that day—the one who looked like someone a mother like hers would approve of. And if not him, another like him—someone she dated for a few years under the watchful eye of her parents, attending high school formals and charity functions, family dinners… maybe even explored herself with.

I didn’t expect there to be legions, but one, maybe two guys who had tried and disappointed her—done their pretty-boy best and failed miserably. This is a scenario I was prepared to deal with, even excited to rectify as I showed her exactly what sex could be. Then she looked at me, so brave, yet so scared, and told me she’d
never
, and god help me, I got hard right then and there. When she continued, explaining she was scared of not being enough, I almost hit my knees.

It’s not just about pleasure anymore, about teaching her how to feel her body and enjoy it. This girl, goddamn,
this girl
deserves to know she’s the prize.

Worthy or not, I’m about to show her just how fucking lucky the guy she chooses is.

I think of the first time I saw her, weeks ago when those convenience-store doors beeped open, and like a dumbass, I discounted her like every other girl her age and status. Until she ate that awful snack-cake, until she admitted her mother’s point even though the woman wasn’t there. God knows why it was that moment I needed a picture of, but since then it seems like Jordan is all I have needed.

I want her to know that, and painting is the only way I can think of to show her. Words aren’t something I bother with often—people can manipulate and bend them too easily—just as I’ve found no matter how many times you may tell someone something, they’ll only hear it if they’re ready.

But painting—art, light, shading and pen strokes, they all tell the story. If you can see my art, you know what’s inside of me. Jordan—she’s inside of me. I’m terrified that even when she leaves and is no longer a part of my life, she’ll still be a part of me.

I raise the camera and focus on her. Jordan fights to stay still, not to shy away, and that makes the simmer in my blood threaten to boil. She’s covered—my shirt more than large enough on her slender frame to conceal most of her smooth skin from shoulder to thighs. It’s the look she gives me out of those caramel eyes—the vulnerability and the trust—which makes this the single sexiest moment I’ve ever witnessed through my lens.

I take my time, walking around the bed, changing filters, adjusting the focus and angles. The light is dying, pouring in from the wall of windows, and casting shadows over Jordan’s pale skin that can’t be ignored. She never moves; her eyes are the only things that change position as they track me while I photograph her figure in portions—starting with her eyes and lips, moving my way down, until I have nearly forty shots.

One knee bent on the bed, camera angled down at her face while I hover over her, I see her hands clench and unclench in the places I put them thirty minutes ago. But she doesn’t move them. Unable to stop myself, I lean down and nip my teeth across her lips.

“I’m going to draw you now,” I say, mouths still touching.

She nods, uncharacteristically quiet. The words may have left her, but I can see them written in her eyes, in the bloom of arousal on her cheeks, in the way she follows my every move as I push off the bed and trade my camera for my sketch pad.

I work for just over an hour, only pausing to hit the light switch for the track lighting when the sun sets completely. As my thumb brushes over another image of Jordan on the page in front of me, my focus blurs. There are only half the amount of sketches done, compared to my normal rate on a project, but my pencil is still. Instead of studying her skin and the way the light hits it—the way it smooths gently over the sleek muscles and beautiful bone structure—I’m just staring at her.

Aware, Jordan pushes to her elbows, the movements slow like she’s just waking up from a deep sleep, eyes heavy, hair rumpled. My shirt stretches taught across those high round breasts, the outline of her hardened nipples evident. I drop my pad and pencil, standing from my stool. I don’t want to scare her; however brave she was earlier when she knocked on my door, however strong she is so much of the time, I can see the small tremors of fear mixed with her passion.

“Brooks.” Her voice is breathy, short, and questioning. I stay where I am, eyes on her, body tightening and hardening in response to the picture she makes. She sits up all of the way, pushing until she’s on her knees in the center of the bed, holding her hand out to me.

“Brooks,” she says again. Though there’s still fear, her voice is strong. She’s made her choice. I’m careful and deliberate when I walk toward her, my gaze holding hers the entire time, watching to make sure this is not another instance she is doing what she’s told.

At the edge of the bed, I stop, looking down as Jordan tilts her face up. When I see her eyes are clouded and dark, her lips slightly parted as she waits for me, I reach forward and cup her face, stroking my thumbs underneath her jaw, over her bottom lip.

“Tell me,” I say, my voice raspy with need. “Whatever you don’t want, whatever you do… you tell me, Jordana.”