Page 26 of On the Edge

Nate leaned closer, his lips brushing against my ear. “Let me see you touch your breasts.”

I skimmed my hands along his body on their way to my own, then rolled each nipple between my thumbs and forefingers. The tightening of my muscles around him was instantaneous, and the pulsing grew so intense I swore I saw stars. Then the waves of heat and pleasure rolled through me, and it was impossible to separate my physical bliss from how in love I was with him.

“Nate,” I moaned as I exploded around him.

Tonight’s orgasm rolls through me just as intensely as if Nate is really here making me feel this way, and I purse my lips shut and sink under the water as the pleasure ripples through me. Wave after wave of sensation course through me as I continue stroking myself, and then suddenly I’m being jerked out of the water.

CHAPTER9

NATE

Park City, Utah

She’s soaking wet and sputtering obscenities, but I don’t think she’d want me to set her down so her nakedness would be on full display. Instead I just hold her cradled against my chest. In the mirror, I watch the curve of her body between my arms, noting the scars that skim across her skin. I’ve seen them already in theSports Illustratedshoot she did after she’d healed from her accident, but seeing those scars in person is somehow different. More real. More my fault than ever.

The guilt is still there, tugging at me, but my traitorous cock only notices her bare skin, her ragged breathing, the way I can see her breast pressed against my chest in the mirror. The guilt and the lust war with each other as I hold her, surprised that she hasn’t leaped out of my arms yet.

Finally she opens her eyes, looks right at me, and asks, “What the fuck, Nate?”

“What just happened?”

“I was taking a relaxing bath and you yanked me out of it, and now I’m freezing ... and naked.” She manages to sound both pissed off and breathless at the same time.

I make sure I don’t glance down at her body, just keep my eyes focused on her face. It’s only about a foot from my own, and her eyes are focused on my lips, like she’s trying to make sense of what I’ll say before I even say it. “You called my name,” I remind her. She sounded like she was in pain. “Then when I knocked to check on you, you didn’t answer and I was afraid something was wrong. When I opened the door, you were thrashing around under the water. I thought you were drowning.”

The flush starts in her chest and creeps swiftly up her neck to her cheeks. I’ve never understood how anyone with such an olive complexion could turn pink so quickly.

“Drowning. In a bathtub. Really?” She lowers her eyebrows along with her voice, like the idea is ridiculous. “I didn’t call your name, and I wasn’t thrashing around. I was just washing myself off.”

I raise my eyebrow because she’s a terrible liar. Always has been. “You’re not going to convince me that I barged in and interrupted your bath unprovoked.”

She doesn’t say anything, just stares at my lips a beat too long before raising her eyes to mine with that defiant look she’s been practicing a whole lot since I’ve been in Park City. This is going nowhere, quick—there’s no way she’s going to tell me why she called me in there, and no way I’m going to believe I imagined it—so I decide to drop it rather than have this result in a fight. “I’ll grab you a towel.”

“I wasn’t done bathing. I haven’t even washed my hair yet.”

For a split second, I imagine stripping my clothes off and walking into that shower with her. But I know she’s not ready for that, even though I’m equally confident that she’s burying a whole lot of longing. I can feel her desire, like a vine that’s growing between and around us, pulling us closer together. But she’s not ready to acknowledge its presence yet, so I grab a towel off the wall and shake it open before stepping up to the vanity. I wrap it around her shoulders and set her down, facing me. “You sure you’re okay?” I ask as I wrap the towel around her, pleased that she doesn’t screech and move to cover herself when I’m facing her.

She’s flushed and wet, the towel covers her breasts where her hand clasps both sides together. Her legs are spread apart and I’m standing between them. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before, but shit it’s been so long. I’m trying to remain unaffected by seeing her like this, but it isn’t working—which will be exceedingly obvious to her if she glances down. It’s like I’m a teenage boy again, lusting after her, knowing we belong together but trying to take it slow until she’s ready. Funny how history repeats itself. And just like back then, I’m sure that tonight I’ll be getting myself off to visions of her naked and moving beneath me, or on top of me, or ...

“I’m fine.” Her words are crisp, but there’s no heat in her eyes. She’s not mad. The distance I see in her gaze makes me wonder if she’s remembering us together too.

“Maybe you can wash your hair in the shower? Not sure I trust you in the tub again.”

“I’ll be fine. This time, I’m locking the door though.”

“Suit yourself,” I say, but I can’t stop my lips from turning up at the corner because, of course, a locked door wouldn’t stop me if I need to get inside.

She opens her mouth to reply, but a knock on the door to the suite cuts her off.

I turn around and pull the plug in the tub. “I’ll get dinner ready. Be quick in the shower or you’ll have cold mac and cheese.” I keep my back to her as I rush out the door so she won’t notice the tent in the front of my sweats.

* * *

It’s ten minutes before the shower goes off, and another ten before she opens that bathroom door. She’s trying to piss me off, but she’s playing the wrong game; I’ve been waiting on her since I was seventeen, twenty minutes is nothing.

Walking toward me in flannel pajama pants and a waffle knit T-shirt, with her hair in a French braid and nothing on her face but her trademark watermelon lip balm, she looks so young and fresh-faced—nothing like the woman I ran into on the elevator Friday night. But my reaction is just as primal. This version of her ismyJackson. Casual, comfortable, like a favorite blanket or a worn-in sweatshirt, and all I want is to tangle myself up in her hair, her limbs, her lips.

I clear my throat when she comes to a stop on the other side of the island, trying not to spend too much energy figuring out if she’s wearing a bra. I’m pretty sure she isn’t.

---