Vertical Lines (The Vert Series Book 1) (22 page)

She nods her head, lifting her knees higher so her wet heat hits me and has my body moving on its own accord. “Once this happens, I won’t step back,” I tell her, my hips moving, setting a rhythm she matches while we rub against one another. “I won’t walk away and give you space. I’ll want it all,” I grind out. Staring at her, I need her to be sure, because I know I won’t be able to stop. “If you give this to me, you’ll be mine, Jordan. All mine.”

“Yes,” she says, and I feel myself start to break. Leaning down, I press my lips to hers, moving to her neck while I position myself at her entrance. Hoping I can make this as painless as possible, I drown her in kisses while I push forward slightly, pausing when I feel her tense. She’s so tight, so tiny.

I stroke her neck and shoulders with my lips and tongue until she relaxes again, pushing forward another bit, rocking against her and gaining small ground.

There’s a tingling at the base of my spine, my body telling me its ready, urging me on. “Give this to me, Jordan,” I say. “Let me give this to you.”

She nods and I thrust all the way forward, breaking through the small resistance until I’m sheathed all the way inside of her. I still when she cries out, remaining silent while I let her adjust to the new sensation, kissing her until I feel her relax against me. The urge to move is almost painful, but I stay still, wiping at the tears she sheds without being aware—watching her eyes until the pain is overshadowed with passion.

Christ, I hope that’s passion.

When she moves slightly, wiggling against me, I can’t help the instinctual thrust of my hips. “Jordan,” I warn, but she shakes her head, bringing her arms up to circle my neck before moving again. That’s all it takes to have me moving with her. Sweat beads over my skin, the effort to pull out and slam myself back inside of her stifled while I watch her face for flickers of pleasure and pain.

I roll my hips and her eyes close, a low moan leaving her lips, so I do it again. Pushing farther up, I rest my weight on one arm while I snake the other hand between us, finding her with my fingers while my hips roll and twist, wringing breathless cries from her. I feel her tighten around me, and everything narrows down to her in that moment.

When she comes, I cover her mouth and drink down her cries, thrusting once more until I follow her over the edge.

+      +      +

Jordan is trembling beneath me, her arms locked tight around my waist and her face turned into my throat.

I need to move, to roll away and take care of the condom and her, but I don’t want to leave this moment, not yet.

I’m not an innocent—there have been girls before, some for fun, some for longer. I’m not the cut-and-run kind of guy. Maybe it comes from the female influence in my life, the need to protect and nurture I have had since early on, but if I sleep with a girl, I don’t kick her out that night. She stays; we say goodbye in the morning and decide whether or not we’ll see each other again.

There’s no rush for her to leave, but I’m usually comfortable saying goodbye with the knowledge I might not see her again.

Jordan’s scent is on me, her limbs around me, and nothing about me can think of saying goodbye. I wasn’t lying when I told her that I would want it all—but even I wasn’t prepared for what this moment would do to me.

Finding the energy to lift my head, I peer down at her. Her face is flushed, her eyes heavy, and her lips red. She’s warm and right and everything I have been missing from my life.

“I should get up,” I say.

She nods, loosening her hold on me so I can move. I see her wince slightly when I pull out, and I try to keep from jostling the bed too much. There is a streak of blood on the condom which gives me pause for a second, reminding me that Jordan didn’t just give me herself, she gave me everything.

Disposing of the latex, I walk back to the main room and find Jordan in my shirt, stripping the sheets from the bed. She looks up when I walk in, the sheets bundled in her arms, the quilt and pillows piled at the foot of the bed.

A rosy shyness blooms on her cheeks and her eyes sweep down. “These need to be cleaned,” she says. “I didn’t know where your linen closet was…” she trails off when I step up and take the bundle from her, throwing it in the corner.

“I’ll take care of it,” I say, pulling her closer. I’m naked, so there is no hiding the attraction I feel when she presses against me. Her eyes get wide, and I smile softly before circling one arm around her waist and cupping the back of her head with my other hand. “Let me take care of you, Red.”

She licks her lips and nods. “I thought you already did.”

I smile, tracing her bottom lip with my thumb. “Let’s take a shower.”

She lets me lead her to the bathroom, standing quietly while I reach inside the tiled stall and flick on the water. I turn and look at her, sweeping my eyes over the picture she makes, my shirt hanging past mid-thigh, her hands linked in front of her. Her hair is tousled, her lips kiss-swollen. I get harder, but I ignore the pulse and step toward her, reaching for the hem of the shirt and stripping it off her, standing back to look at her naked form once more.

“I didn’t think you were beautiful the first time I saw you,” I tell her. She smiles, amused as ever.

“I’m not,” she says, but I shake my head, interrupting her.

“You’re more. Long limbs, sunset hair, caramel eyes… skin like porcelain.” I trace my fingertips down her neck and over her shoulder. “I see you everywhere I go. Everything reminds me of you—a picture, the light, a sound. You’ve overwhelmed me until all I can think of is you, Jordana.”

Her eyes are wide and wet when I lift her into the shower with me, my back blocking the spray until she’s used to the temperature. I stroke my hands through her hair, pour soap into my palm and smooth it over her skin, rotating positions so she can rinse. When I reach between her legs, her mouth forms an
O
, but I’m gentle as I wash her, my eyes on hers the entire time.

“Thank you,” I whisper, pressing my lips to her shoulder. “For this. For you. For everything.” I want to consume her—to pull her against me and show her exactly how deep my need for her goes. But I was her first… even now, she trembles lightly against me and I understand my needs have to wait.

I let the water sluice off her and sink my hands into her hair, framing her jaw with the undersides of my thumbs. She tilts her head back and I see the tears immediately, those expressive eyes so wide and wet. The passion I was drowning in earlier is there, with more. A need. A plea. A desire.

“I’ve got you, baby. I’ve got you.” Leaning down, I kiss the tears from her eyes, her cheeks, her lips where they fall and mix with the water droplets. She rises to her toes, wrapping her arms around my neck and pressing her face into my shoulder, trusting me to hold her just like she trusted me to love her.

Christ, love her. I block that thought even while my arms wrap around her. I know I will go back to it, but right now, it’s too big, too much to think about while I’m still with her.

She cries silently, the only indication coming from the slight tremble in her body every now and then. I hold her tightly against me even when the water turns cool. I don’t talk, not only because I don’t know what to say, but because I’m afraid my voice will betray me. This moment—it’s one of the more intense experiences I have ever had.

It’s not just sex. Sex is mutual, it’s gratifying, it’s something I can respect and enjoy without feeling changed. But
I am
changed. Holding Jordana now, remembering how she looked an hour ago, beneath me, trusting me with something so big, I can’t comprehend how I’ll ever let her go.

Chapter 35

Jordan

Brooks makes eggs. We eat them on the couch, looking out the glass wall at the nearly empty beach, the moon barely a sliver with clouds rolling in. I’m wearing one of his shirts, something warm and soft and almost as threadbare as the one he was wearing the other night, but not quite.

It smells like him—when I put it on, everything inside of me went liquid, remembering how he touched me, how he made me feel.

After our shower, he wrapped me in a towel and left me in the bathroom, giving me the privacy to clear my head. When I stepped out into the bedroom, the soiled sheets were gone, already replaced by another set. He was standing beside the bed in a pair of black sweats and nothing else, holding a shirt.

The picture he made… dark skin, dark hair still wet and streaming down toward his shoulders, dark eyes. He should scare me—on some elemental level I think he does, but it’s not because of his size or his ability to hold so much inside. It’s because of the way he makes me feel.

Brooklyn Novak pulls emotions from me I didn’t know I had, makes me want things I wasn’t sure existed, until everything else just seems to fade away as less. School, my family, the future… none of it is so consuming anymore. With Brooks, I just live.

He walked toward me, his steps steady and sure, easing the insecurity that had begun to take root when I was in the bathroom alone. The way I cried on him… embarrassing to say the least. But he didn’t seem repulsed—instead, he reached for me when he was still a foot away, curling his large hand around the back of my neck in the way he does, letting his thumb tilt my chin up so his lips could meet mine.

The kiss was slow and sweet—nothing but lips sliding and breaths mingling. And then he pulled back and eased his shirt over my head, watching my eyes the entire time he let my towel fall to the floor, his shirt sliding down my torso after it.

His need to nurture and protect is strong. When he made dinner and put it all on one plate so he could sit me on his lap and feed us both, I didn’t tease him or explain that I was more than capable of doing it myself. It’s not that he thinks I’m incapable. Brooklyn is about action, showing his feelings.

“I feel like I’ve known you forever.”

The words slip out before I’ve really thought of them. Belatedly, I wonder if they are the wrong thing to say, if they somehow make me sound too familiar, too confident, too involved. Before I can stress about it, he speaks with lazy amusement.

“Bored with me already?”

“Completely. It’s always the same thing with you, never any adventure.” I smile, happy to hear his small laugh and feel the rumble in his chest.

“Is that what you’re looking for, Red? Adventure?”

“Isn’t that what this is?”

Brooks sets the plate down on the coffee table and shifts me so we’re facing one another. “I’m not using you, Jordan.”

The way he says it—voice gruff, eyes serious… like I matter. I smile, reaching out to run my fingertips across his lips. “I don’t feel used, Brooklyn. But this
is
an adventure. I didn’t plan for you when I moved to San Diego—I didn’t really plan for anything except being miserable.” I look down, a smile curving my lips. Perspective,
ah
how it can change.

“But this… it’s exciting, like jumping off a cliff and trusting the wind to take me in the right direction; wherever that is.”

His eyes get darker with each word I say. Playful Brooklyn morphs into serious Brooklyn right in front of me. I can’t help the shiver when he cups my jaw and tips my face up. “How do you know you can trust me?”

There is insecurity in his face—the kind that comes with failure. Brooks thinks he’s failed Ashton—he doesn’t have to say it for me to see his pain. Because of that, he doesn’t want me to trust him. Touch him, yes. Laugh with him, smile with him, but not trust him. Not give myself to him completely.

I don’t make this serious, though. As much as he cares for me, it’s a long way from loving me—and I don’t want to ruin this moment with that reality right now. It’s self-preservation more than selflessness that has me smiling and looking at him under my lashes.

“I trusted you to teach me about sex, and you did all right there.”

His eyebrow wings up, that not-quite smile forming on his lips. “All right?”

I shrug like it’s no big deal. “Yes, all right. It was fun.”

Now both eyebrows are raised, his hand tightening on my waist. “Are you trying to instigate something, Red?”

“Maybe. What would you say if I was?”

Now those brows lower, his focus intense when he brings one hand up to the back of my neck. “I’d ask if you’re sure. You’re going to be sore, Jordan.” My cheeks flame because I am tender already, but he won’t let me look down. “I’ve thought of touching you since the minute I stopped, but I don’t want to hurt you.”

Heat washes over me—joy, arousal, emotion. I want to grab him and kiss him and tell him how much I love him—but I’m terrified. Terrified, because I know he doesn’t feel like he can give himself to anyone else, and I might ruin this if I tell him I’m his. Regardless of what he feels, I’m his.

“I’m not afraid of being hurt, Brooks. Being with you… it’s what I want. More than anything.”

“Christ.” The word explodes out of him in a harsh whisper, and then his hand is putting pressure on my neck, bringing my lips down to his. His lips are urgent, his tongue invasive. Before I can catch up, he’s shifting, lifting me with him until I’m straddling him, one knee resting on either side of his hips.

I feel him hard and ready at my core, and though it’s more than tender, I barely register the discomfort. I whimper slightly—to feel Brooklyn like this, to know he wants me like this, overwhelms me and has my entire body throbbing for him.

Like the flick of a switch, he gentles, his movements going from urgent and aggressive to slow and enticing.

His hands cruise under my borrowed shirt and up my sides, thumbs brushing my erect nipples. My back instinctively arches, my hips pressing against his, my center rubbing against his.

“Brooklyn.”

“I got you baby.” Standing, he brings me with him, legs around his waist, arms around his neck, while he carries us to his bed. He sits, leaving us in essentially the same position we were on the couch.

Reaching over, he grabs a condom from the nightstand, propping me up on my knees so he can pull his sweats down and protect us.

“Are you sure, Jordan?”