Vertical Lines (The Vert Series Book 1) (21 page)

“Yes.”

“And you’re too big to be abducted, so I guess that leaves the last one. Were you disappointed, Brooks?”

She’s standing in front of me, her fingers tangled together—reigning in all of that nervous energy—her dark-blue cardigan with white polka dots and a bright-green ribbon on it pulled tightly over her white shirt, looking like a student waiting for a grade from her teacher.

I can’t avoid the image that pops into my head, me teaching Jordan how to ride, to suck, to pleasure. Christ. My body goes on slow burn.

“Did it feel like I was disappointed, Jordan?”

She blinks a few times, shuffling her feet. “No, but then, I guess my measuring stick is a little off.” Her face flames pink the minute the words are out. “Not that I was measuring anything… you know, not to imply there was anything wrong with you and your… stuff.
Hmm
.” She clears her throat, eyes widening when I step toward her.

Nerves are dancing off her. Somehow, they’ve calmed all of mine. Any lingering question I had about what I should do is gone. Simple, really, to look at the one person who has your heart and accept them. I can’t see the future—can’t know if this is going to end badly, but I can see her right now, in front of me, and she looks like every dream I have ever had. Convincing her of that truth is the only thing left to do.

“Were you disappointed, Jordana?”

“No.” Her voice is barely a whisper, her eyes wide caramel pools when she looks up at me. “But then you didn’t call. And I realized maybe what was special to me… wasn’t anything to you at all. That disappointed me,” she admits.

“Do you think I would ask you to come back here if I had been disappointed?” Her face says it all. I slip my fingers through her hair at the temple, weaving them all the way through, tilting her head up so she’s looking at me. “I told you I wouldn’t lie.”

She swallows, her eyes wide and innocent and hurt. “Then why didn’t you call?”

I don’t want to answer her. But I told her I don’t lie—and she deserves to hear the real reason I made her worry. “Because you scare me, Jordana,” I tell her, and those eyes get even rounder. “I want you. More than I can remember wanting anything in a really long time. I want you. And it has nothing to do with painting.”

Her breath is coming quickly, her body trembling lightly. Her eyes never leave mine, though. My brave girl, so determined to be fearless. “Then take me,” she says.

Chapter 33

Jordan

My virginity isn’t something I kept because of a promise ring or a moral code. Honestly, it wasn’t something I had ever given a lot of thought to.

Until Brooklyn.

I’ve been kissed, obviously. I wasn’t a lecher in high school, and though I wasn’t the prettiest or most popular girl, my last name meant something, and I was attractive once I grew into my looks. Plus, teenagers are shallow. Even if I had been a hideous girl, there would have been an interested party or two simply because I’m a Richards. Which, now that I think about it, might be the real reason I never looked too closely at someone. When you know they’re paying for your dinner and trying to kiss you goodnight because they want your daddy to like them… it kind of ruins the mood.

My junior year, I dated Chad Hawkins for three months. After six weeks of dinner dates and kissing, we made one bad attempt at third base. Between his drunken fumbling and my general discomfort and fear that I was doing something wrong, I’m pretty sure we both faked our way out of the moment and back into our clothes.

When Brooklyn touched me the other night—everything felt bigger. There was no part of me that didn’t ache, no room for my brain to turn on and explore all of the possibilities of failure or embarrassment. The only thing I was capable of doing was feeling, being in the moment with him, and hoping to keep up.

But then he didn’t call, and I worried I had read too much into it. Nala assured me he wasn’t like that—whoever he was, Brooks would never ignore me. If he didn’t want to be with me, he would tell me. I don’t know if that made me feel better or worse; when I saw him tonight, every fear I had was pushed away because he was once again there.

I’m scared it makes me weak, but when he is looking at me like he does, touching me, I forget to be rational and cautious—I just act. Which is probably why even with the kissing, I asked him why he didn’t call. It didn’t appear he was done with me, but then what do I know?

And now he’s looking at me, telling me that what he wants is more than I could have ever imagined, and everything in me is screaming
yes
. Because like the other night, I don’t want caution; I want the world I see through his lens—the one that is powerful, and raw, and emotional. The one where I’m with Brooklyn, and he looks at me like I’m everything.

“Then take me.”

His hands tighten in my hair, making me wince. He releases me immediately. Eyes searching mine, I can see the war inside of him. Only this time, I’m not afraid. Three days ago I didn’t know if he wanted me. Three minutes ago I wasn’t sure, but now, armed with the knowledge that he is just as unsure as I am, my whole body buzzes with anticipation.

“I shouldn’t do this,” he says. “I should walk away and never touch you again.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Because you deserve better. More than I can give you.”

I shake my head, placing my hands against his chest. “All I want is you. Can you give me that?”

His eyes are almost tortured when they meet mine. “I want to.”

It’s not an answer. I know that, and a part of me understands why. Brooklyn has to be in charge and be strong—he has to be the one in control at all times, because the people in his life depend on him. Asking to have him, even just a part, is a large request.

But he doesn’t deny me. His lips are gentle when they meet mine, nibbling over my top lip and then my bottom before moving to the corner of my mouth. My eyes close and I exhale a shaky breath, my hands sliding over his chest to his shoulders. His muscles are tense, but he is sweet when he moves his hands to my waist beneath my cardigan.

He shuffles closer to me, bringing me up against the hard contours of his body while his lips continue to drop small kisses across my jaw and chin, over to my ear and down my neck to my collarbone.

Goosebumps break out when he speaks, his lips still pressed against my skin so I feel the slight lap of his tongue.

“I want to see you, Jordan. All of you.” He changes angles, dragging his lips over the arch of my throat to the other side. His hands are taking possession of my waist, the heat burning through my thin white shirt to the skin beneath. “Are you going to let me see you?”

The way he asks… I know he isn’t speaking about something as simple as nudity. Not Brooklyn—he wants it all, to see beyond my body and into me, my reactions and responses. The vulnerable me who can’t think or filter, who can only react, because what he does to me makes me forget.

His hands skim beneath my shirt to skin, and the touch feels electric. I nod, but he pulls back, waiting for me to open my eyes and look at him. “Say it,” he demands, and the thickness in his voice tells me just how much he wants. “Say
yes
, and let me see you, Jordan.”
      “Yes,” I breathe out, and his hands are back, this time pushing my cardigan to the floor before they reach for the hem of my shirt. His movements are purposeful—there is no rush, but I feel the urgency inside of him with every touch. My body responds in kind: my breasts heavy, my skin flushed, everything inside of me aching for
more.

The back of Brooklyn’s hands slide against my skin while he brings my shirt up and over my midriff and ribs. He pauses only slightly while I raise my arms, and then he is sweeping the material over my head, letting it fall to the floor while my hair settles around my bare shoulders. We stare at one another, and I resist the urge to cover myself when I remember my bra is nude lace.

“Don’t,” he says when I bring my arms up. And more gently, “don’t hide from me.” He brings his hands to my wrists, tugging them away from my skin and holding them while he looks his fill. I flush, but I don’t move. When his eyes meet mine again, they aren’t disgusted or confused or resigned—they’re dark and needy and intense.

He leans in, still holding my wrists, and captures my lips, suckling and licking, diving deeply into my mouth with his tongue until I have forgotten to be embarrassed.

“I want the rest,” he murmurs. He releases my wrists and his fingers go to the button of my jeans, popping it open before he drags the zipper down. The other night, his movements were slow, and I felt like I was swimming through water each time he touched me. Now, he’s showing me what it means to be wanted, his mouth and hands sure, every touch igniting my skin until I feel ready to burn up.

He pushes the denim over my hips and down my legs, helping me out of my jeans so I stand in front of him in my matching bra and panties. His eyes sweep from my head to my toes and back. My skin flushes with heat.

When he speaks, everything inside of me tightens to the point of explosion.

“I’m going to touch you now,” he says, stepping forward until we are pressed together. “And I’m not going to stop—not unless you tell me to.” Threading his fingers through my hair, he brings his lips within an inch of mine. “Don’t hold back.” And then he’s crushing our lips together, his mouth demanding, his tongue sweeping in to battle with mine. He unhooks my bra, his hands sliding from my hair to my back, dealing with the clasp and shedding the material until my breasts press against his T-shirt, the cotton friction causing another wave of sensation.

I gasp and he swallows it, his fingers and palms playing over my skin until they’ve reached my breasts. “You’re so sweet,” he whispers, mouth at my ear while his thumbs scrape over my nipples. My knees start to buckle, and Brooks is there, sweeping me up and carrying me to the bed.

I take advantage of our positions, turning my face into his neck and nibbling on his skin like he does to me. When he moans, I smile and do it again.

We get to the bed and Brooks sets one knee on it, leaning over and settling me in the center before he straightens. This… this right here is the most vulnerable I have ever been. He studies every part of me from his position above, eyes lighting on my breasts, my stomach, my hips, and further down to my legs.

My body is humming in anticipation and anxiety when he meets my eyes.

“I trust you.” He hasn’t asked, but I know him, and I can see the war going on inside of him, whether or not this is right. Nothing has ever felt more right in my life. “I want you, Brooklyn. I want to give this to you,” I finish, and something flashes in his eyes.

“You have me.” The words are harsh, and with the intensity of his eyes, my body shivers in response. “Jesus, Jordana, you have me.”

Chapter 34

Brooks

I climb onto the bed, body pulsing and blood heated while I move Jordan beneath me. Her legs open automatically, and she brings her knees up around my hips when I press against her.

Her eyes widen at first contact, my rigid length pressing against her soft core, and I have to use every ounce of self-control I have not to thrust. I’m fully clothed still, knowing that when our skin slides together, I might not be able to stop myself.

I murmur to her while I assault her flesh with my mouth, working to relax her like she was a second ago before my weight settled on her. She’s so small—I’m holding myself on my forearms with my hips snug against hers, watching every flicker, every lip bite, every expression her face makes. I lower my mouth to her breasts, teasing one and then the other with my tongue and lips until she’s rocking against me, her body loosening and her legs relaxing, her arms winding around my neck.

“Touch me, Brooklyn,” she whispers, her lips pressed against my neck. “Please, touch me,” she says again, and I groan, rolling to the side and bringing her with me. I need to go slow, to make sure that she’s lost in everything, that she’s ready for me.

I haven’t been with someone so innocent since I was sixteen and Mary Lee Rheinhardt let me get into her pants in the back of her Four Runner after the Fourth of July. I wasn’t gentle then, but neither was Mary Lee. In the almost seven years since, I’ve learned how to give instead of just take; faced with Jordan’s innocence, I’m torn between how much I want her and how much she scares me.

We’re on our sides, facing one another—her almost naked, me in my jeans and shirt. Sliding my hand down her side, over her ribs and trim waist to her hip, I lean in and kiss her, my tongue diving and stroking until she’s writhing against me instinctively. My fingers slide up the inside of her knee to her thigh, easing inside her panties to find her wet and ready.

She stiffens slightly when I touch her, causing me to pause and take her mouth again, mating our tongues until she’s loose and relaxed enough to let me inside. Her body jolts when I add more pressure, but then I curl my fingers and hit the spot that has her going slack against me, her breath ragged. I roll until she’s on her back and I’m hovering above her, my fingers still inside her while I work my mouth across the rest of her skin. Jordan’s head thrashes back and forth on the pillow, her back arching and hips lifting while I work her harder.

“Let go, Jordan,” I tell her. “I want to see what I do to you.”

I press another finger in with the first and she bucks, a scream ripping from her throat while her orgasm flows up and over. The desire to strip myself down and slam into her is huge; I lean back, pressing kisses to her jaw, her shoulder, her chest before I roll away from her and strip out of my clothes.

Her eyes are on me the entire time, her skin flushed and lips swollen. I’m hard and throbbing when I grab a condom from the nightstand and roll it on. Crawling over her, I place kisses from her belly to her sternum, to her collarbone and her lips, my body settling between her thighs.

My forearms rest on either side of her head, my fingers slide into her hair, and for a minute, I stare at her, body tense and ready to explode, heart slamming against my ribs. “Are you sure, Jordan?”