Page 55 of Jesse's Girl

“Um, sure,” I hear myself say. Then, like I’m fucking hypnotized, I watch myself take the scissors, observing my own movements from outside my body.

His gaze on me is like a caress.

Unable to stare any longer into those blue eyes without doing something stupid, I look down. We don’t speak as I snip away at his beard. My fingertips graze his face, and I feel his every breath as my hands move past his lips. When I gently grasp his jaw to guide him to turn, he yields, and when I lift his chin, he bares his neck, his Adam’s apple lifting when he swallows. There’s a warmth to the intimate space between our bodies. A charge in the air. I remind myself to breathe.

When I’m finished, I step back and tug the towel away from his neck, gently shaking it out over the floor before drifting to the sink in a surreal fog. I wet one end with warm water and squeeze out the excess.

Jesse is off-limits. Marcus would lose his shit—and I can’t do that to my brother. Or to Jesse.

And yet, as I claw for the last threads of my rapidly unraveling common sense, my back prickles with heat. I can feel him watching me.

Walk away. Walk away right now.

I imagine the ways I could escape this. I could throw him the towel and tell him to go take another fucking shower, for example. A cold one. Or I could lie and say I’m late for work and run off…

But I don’t run.

When I turn back around, my breath catches at the sight of him. He sits patiently in the middle of the kitchen, eyes trained on me with an expression that’s both intense and unreadable.

Aaaaaand he’s fucking gorgeous.

Shit.

What have I done? I should have left him in his scruffy billy goat state, roadkill beard be damned. Because now? Now he’s like a disheveled Hemsworth brother and…

No. Not today, Satan.

Not ever.

I wipe my hands on the dry end of the towel and swallow. Then, my body betraying me once again, I find myself in front of him, the yellow glow of the overhead light casting shadows over him as I roughly brush the towel over his trimmed beard. A little too roughly, maybe.

“Easy, now.” Jesse chuckles softly, blinking up at me. “No need to be so aggressive about it.”

“Then hold still, jackass.” I lean in, bracing a hand on the back of his neck to steady him. I shift my stance around his long legs, painfully aware that I’m basically straddling his lap.

He watches my every move, and I catch the flex of his hand as his gaze licks up my body.

I smooth the wet corner of the towel down one cheek and over the square line of his jaw. His lips pull open slightly as I work my way around his mouth.

His mouth. Fuck. I can’t look at his mouth.

His pupils are blown wide and locked on me. My cheeks burn with heat.

“Almost done,” I say quietly. Then, going against every rational thought screaming in my brain, I lean in even closer and drag the damp towel behind his ears, then across the back of his neck. Jesse’s mouth is inches from my collarbone, his warm breath fanning over my skin. The sensation makes me close my eyes for a moment as I claw for self-control. I’m attuned to every movement—both his and my own—and his clean, citrusy scent fills my senses, making me wonder what he would taste like.

Pull away. Now.

But I don’t. I can’t.

His magnetic pull buzzes so loud in my ears, I half expect my hair to stand on end as every cell of my body orients in his direction. He turns his head away for a moment, the corded muscles of his neck flexing. When he looks back up at me, time seems to slow, and something in him snaps.

He grasps my hips and, with a jerk, tugs me down onto his lap. My shocked gasp slices through the quiet and the towel slips over his shoulder, fluttering to the floor. I’m straddling him, our lips inches apart and our breaths mingling. Tense at first, my stunned posture slowly melts against the warmth of his broad chest. When his hands slide around my waist, I can’t help but rock my hips forward, leaning closer.

“Ada…” he whispers, his nose grazing mine. Hearing him say my name like that—so close, so intimate, so reverent—sucks the air from my lungs. He grips the back of my tank top, twisting the fabric as if he’s fighting—and losing—some internal battle to stop himself from taking this further. And, when he breaks, hauling me in and slamming my core against his unmistakable hardness, I don’t even resist.

My fingers fall from his still-damp hair as my gaze jumps between his eyes and his mouth, each movement asking every question our lips can’t utter.

What is this? What’s happening? Do you feel this too?

---