“I realized if I lost you there, I wasn’t getting you back. It put things into perspective, in a fucked-up way. It was like, suddenly all the bullshit I was hanging onto dropped away. Because all that mattered was that you were okay. And you were looking at me.”
Jazz cleared his throat hard and squinted, a pinched, endearingly ugly expression that only appeared when he was trying not to cry.
“And the things I said to you earlier…” I blinked hard myself, willing away the prickle of tears behind my eyes. “I know that’s not who you are. I guess the way I feel about you has been changing since you came back. And it’s fucking scary. Scary to feel like I don’t know you—like I don’t know us. And I guess the cowardly part of me saw an opportunity to prove my feelings wrong and ran with it.”
“Changing how?”
I paused, pressed my lips together.
“Your feelings,” Jazz said. “How are they changing?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I know I—I want to be close to you. Touch you. Kiss you again. I don’t know anything more than that yet.”
Jazz sighed and sank back into the pillows. “I can’t believe you thought I’d work with Crave.”
“I know,” I said, “I’m sorry, I just—”
From his comfortable position on the bed, Jazz was smirking. He was teasing me.
A bit of weight lifted off my shoulders. He looked a little more at ease. I liked that. I wanted to see more of that. “Did you see the pictures?” I shot back. “Looked like a drug deal. You had your arms crossed all tough and everything.”
“I was trying to be intimidating,” Jazz said. “I didn’t have a gun.”
“Whose fault is that?”
“I was going to a club! What kinds of clubs are you going to where you can just bring guns in?”
“Uh, Ballast, the only club worth going to?”
Jazz started to laugh then, and I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed that low sound until I heard it again. “Come here,” he said. “Kiss me again.”
I obeyed. I leaned forward and kissed him, slow at first, careful. Even though desire burned like embers stoking slowly into a fire low in my gut, I didn’t want to rush him, or risk making his minor injuries worse. And part of me was nervous, too. Even just kissing felt different than kisses I’d shared with women in the past.
Under mine, Jazz’s lips were soft, a little chapped, and when I slid my hand to his jaw cradle it, his skin was rough with stubble. He made a soft sound against my mouth, an exhale somewhere between a sigh and a gasp. As his lips opened against mine, I deepened the kiss, sweeping my tongue into his mouth.
Jazz tipped his head back with a sigh. “Get over here.” He tugged my shirt, pulling me closer as he scooted over to make more room for me on the narrow bed.
I kicked off my boots and settled next to him. Jazz rolled onto his side, head propped on the palm of his hand, and just looked at me. His amber eyes were a little widened, his lips a little darker and swollen from kissing. Heat curled inside me—I wanted to touch every inch of him. I wanted to get close enough to crawl inside him. It was a desire that burned from inside out, mowing down all my hesitations like a forest fire.
“What do you want?” Jazz asked carefully, like he was afraid of the answer.
“You,” I said automatically.
He rolled his eyes. “Well, I figured that part out. I meant more like—”
I silenced him with another kiss. The fact that he was nervous, too, made me feel less so. Because regardless of the desire burning within me and the inherent newness—but rightness—of kissing Jazz, it was still Jazz. We used to read each other and communicate with a look or a shrug from across the room. That’s how I wanted to communicate now—talking about it felt impossible, because I didn’t know what it was. All I knew was that I wanted him, wanted to learn his familiar body in this new way, to know he was home safe. With me.
And Jazz seemed to understand. He sighed and kissed me back, shifting closer so he was halfway on top of me. His hand slid tentatively across my chest, like he wasn’t sure how much he could touch.
I didn’t want him to be tentative. If he wanted me, I wanted to know. So I suddenly