Page 44 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

His hands settle on my waist like I’m breakable. I am not breakable.

I grab his wrists and drag them down over my hips, my thighs, letting him feel exactly what I want him to think about for the rest of his life.

He exhales like I’ve knocked the wind out of him. “This is real?” he breathes. “You want this?”

“I’m about five seconds from fucking you on the kitchen floor, Blake,” I say, fingers twisting into his shirt. “So unless you’ve got a complaint, I’d start moving.”

He stumbles over a nod, already following me when I turn. Good boy.

I lead him down the hall, walking slow because I know he’s watching. I can feel the reverence in his gaze, the panic, the disbelief. He’s undone already and I haven’t even taken his clothes off.

Yet.

I pause at my bedroom door, then turn back to face him.

He nearly crashes into me. His hands go to my waist again, steadier now, but his breath still comes shallow.

“Jennifer,” he says again, softer this time. Less question, more devotion.

And that’s when I realize he’s not just nervous. He’s falling. He’s looking at me like I’m not a warning sign or a mistake or a terrible idea he’s going to regret tomorrow. He’s looking at me like I’m his.

I inhale sharply, pulse skittering. That’s dangerous. That’s…

I silence the thought with another kiss. Deeper, hungrier, less about control now and more about distraction.

If I think too hard, I’ll stop. I’ll shut down. I’ll lock myself in the pantry and eat sugar cubes until my hormones pass out from emotional exhaustion.

But not right now.

Right now, I want to feel something that doesn’t come with regret and blood under my nails.

I want Blake.

I back into the bedroom, tugging him with me, pulling until he stumbles past the threshold and then I close the door behind us, sealing us inside this soft, sunlit trap I’ve built for myself.

“I want you,” I say. “But only if you want this too.”

His hands shake as he cups my face. But his voice is solid. “I’ve wanted this since the first time you laughed,” he whispers. “I just didn’t think I deserved it.”

That’s enough to make something inside me fracture and rewire itself all at once.

I kiss him like I’m grateful. I kiss him like I’m afraid. I kiss him like I could be something other than a storm waiting to swallow him whole.

And when his fingers slide under my shirt with trembling reverence and his breath hitches like it hurts to touch me, I know it’s time.

I reach down, take his hands, and guide them higher. Over my ribs, to the swell of my breasts. I’m not wearing a bra. I wasn’t thinking. Or maybe I was. Maybe I knew exactly what I wanted the moment I pulled that sundress on and whispered just eggs to Gary like a goddamn liar.

Blake groans. It’s soft, but raw, like the sound punched out of him by surprise and heat and too many nights thinking about this.

His thumbs brush over my nipples through the thin cotton and I gasp, hips tipping forward, body answering before I can pretend I’m still in control.

“Oh,” he says. A little helpless. Like he’s watching stars blink into existence in my collarbone.

“Yeah,” I breathe, already dragging his shirt up. “Off. Now.”

He helps, fumbling it over his head, and suddenly it’s just… all there. The chest I’ve ogled over the fence. Strong and sun-kissed and stupidly pretty. I run my hands over him like I’m mapping a new continent. His skin is warm. A little damp with nerves. I want to bite him just to see what sound he makes. So I do.

His breath stutters as my teeth graze his shoulder. Not hard. Just enough to mark him.

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