down at her, sprawled half across him, her face in profile: the wink of her nose stud as she rose on his inhalation, her tangled mess of hair, the curve of her lush lips and the fan of the outrageously long false lashes on her cheek.
He spoke on the fringe of aloud, knowing he had no audience and whatever he said was safe and secret. “I’m in serious trouble here. Serious. See, I think I’m in love with this tough chick rock star and I know she feels something for me too.”
He took her hand and moved it so it rested over his heart, trapped it there under his hand, waited to see if she’d stir, half of him wanting her to, so she could tell him what to do. “But I think she might slip through my fingers and I don’t know how to stop her. I don’t know if she’ll let me stop her. Tell me, what the fuck am I supposed to do about that?”
35. New
Rielle woke at the approach of dawn to Jake’s soft snore and sat to watch him. This too was new. No man she ever took to bed was still there in the morning. One way or another she got rid of them, either with a direct request or by more subtle, but equally brutal means of shutting them out. Sometimes they came back, but they were never invited to stay. It was easier that way. In any case, they weren’t still there, warm and vulnerable to her appraisal when she woke.
So much about this man was unique. So much about what she wanted from him was foreign. This man she wanted to keep. Worse, she was almost scared to let him go. What was that about? Surely it was just the sex. Holy fuck. The most substance-shattering sex of her life. But what if it was more than that? She couldn’t think that through, not with him just a stretch away. Not knowing what they did together was a whole new kind of explosive seared inside her bone marrow, branded on her brain.
Jake lay on his back, one arm draped across the bed, the other looped over his waist, the sheet tucked down low on his hips. She wanted to trace the curve of his chest, down the muscle moguls of his abdominals to the sharp cut of his hip bone, first with her hand, then with her lips; but she didn’t want him awake, not yet. Not til she’d worked out what to do with him.
He was so much stronger than she’d thought—so much better at standing up to her, not taking her shit, than anyone else except Rand. That was a revelation, unexpected and confusing. And distracting. Would he wake if she smoothed his dark brow? If she rolled her thumb over his cheekbone?
If this was just about the sex, why did he make her feel she was transparent to him, as though he could see straight into her and wasn’t horrified by what he found? Why did she want to talk to him almost as much as she wanted to kiss his throat, tongue his nipple? The thought of spending the day with him was nearly as exciting as knowing they’d make love again that morning.
When she could be bothered, her usual hook-ups were about opportunity and physical need, forgetting and fear of being alone. All of them transitory, deliberately featureless, about flesh not feelings.
Jake was about physical need as well, so maybe he wasn’t different. Maybe the way he could tune her body better than anyone else just confused the issue. Maybe the desire to have breakfast with him and tumble into bed again was a different version of the same thing she’d always done. Distracted herself with pretty men.
Maybe she was going mad.
It was only two days til they left for Sydney and when she thought about it she could feel the panic rising. It started at the base of her spine, flicking out from every vertebra to wrap around her lungs and squeeze sense and meaning out of her. Why had she agreed to come back? Right now she hated Rand, hated the band and the whole tour. Hated her own ambition for agreeing to it all. Nothing good could come from being back.
She sighed. Yeah, that’s all Jake was, a beautiful distraction. Unparalleled, uncomplicated pleasure for her body; and a soothing contact for her soul. Something to take her mind off her fears and help