Page 83 of The Slug Crystal
We move through the gallery slowly, speaking in hushed tones about the artwork, not the made-up histories from the museum, but genuine impressions and reactions. Jake's thumb traces circles against my palm as we walk, a simple touch that somehow raises goosebumps along my arm.
Standing before a vibrant painting of the Italian countryside, I feel Jake's gaze on me rather than the art. When I turn to him, the heat in his eyes makes my breath catch. Somethinghas shifted between us since the fountain, as if a door long kept closed has finally swung open.
"What?" I ask, though I know the answer.
His eyes move from mine to my lips, then back again. "I've wanted you for so long," he says simply. "Years of wanting, Emma."
The honesty in his voice shoots straight through me, igniting something urgent and necessary. I glance toward the sleeping gallery attendant, who hasn't stirred.
"Not here," I whisper, though my body is already leaning toward Jake's like a flower seeking sunlight.
His eyes scan the space, landing on a door marked "Privato" in the corner. Without hesitation, he guides me toward it, his hand firm against the small of my back. The door opens with a soft click to reveal a maintenance closet. It’s a cramped space lined with shelves of cleaning supplies and art materials. A single bulb hangs from the ceiling, activated by a pull string that Jake tugs as he closes the door behind us.
"This is crazy," I breathe, suddenly aware of how small the space is, how close we're standing. The closet smells of varnish and linseed oil, with undertones of cleaning products and dust.
"Completely," Jake agrees, his voice rough with desire. "Should we stop?"
In answer, I reach for him, fingers tangling in his hair as I pull his mouth to mine. The kiss is nothing like our gentle exchange by the fountain. This is raw hunger, pure and unrestrained. Jake's hands slide down my back to grip my hips, pulling me against him so I can feel his hard length through his jeans.
I tug at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against mine. He breaks the kiss long enough to pull it over his head with one hand, revealing the toned chest I've glimpsed on occasion but never been free to touch. My hands explore the planes ofmuscle, the slight roughness of hair, the smooth curve where shoulder meets neck.
"Your turn," he murmurs, fingers finding the hem of my sundress. I raise my arms, allowing him to lift it up and off, leaving me in just my underwear, simple cotton things I'd thrown on while hungover, not expecting anyone to see them.
"I didn't exactly dress for seduction," I admit with a self-conscious laugh.
Jake's eyes darken as they roam over me. "You're perfect," he says, and the reverence in his voice makes me believe him. "Always have been."
His hands cup my breasts through my bra, thumbs brushing over the fabric where my nipples have already hardened in anticipation. I arch into his touch, a small sound escaping me as he replaces one thumb with his mouth, the heat of his breath penetrating the thin cotton.
In my eagerness to get closer, I step forward, pushing Jake against the shelves behind him. He reaches out to steady himself, accidentally knocking over a broom that clatters to the floor with a noise that seems deafening in our small hideaway.
We freeze, eyes wide, listening for any sign that the gallery attendant has awoken. After a moment of silence, Jake lets out a stifled laugh.
"Very smooth, Martinez," I whisper, unable to keep from smiling.
"I've always been known for my grace," he replies, ignoring that I’m the one who caused the noise and pulling me back against him. "Where were we?"
"Right about here," I say, reaching between us to unbutton his jeans.
His breath catches as my fingers brush against his thick length through the denim. I slide his zipper down slowly, maintaining eye contact as I slip my hand inside to stroke himthrough his boxers. The hardness of him sends a pulse of heat between my own legs, a tightening of anticipation.
Jake's hands aren't idle either, sliding up my back to unclasp my bra with practiced ease. As the fabric falls away, his eyes fix on my exposed breasts with such naked appreciation that I flush from chest to hairline.
"God, Emma," he breathes, bending to take one nipple into his mouth while his hand attends to the other. The dual sensation makes my knees weaken, forcing me to clutch his shoulders for support.
His mouth works its way up my neck to my ear, where he whispers, "I've dreamed about this. About you. For so long."
There's something unbearably intimate about the admission, more revealing than our state of undress. This isn't just physical for him. It never has been.
"I want you," I tell him, my voice catching as his teeth graze my earlobe. "Now."
He doesn't need further invitation. In a swift movement, he turns us so my back is against the wall, lifting me slightly so I can wrap my legs around his waist. My underwear is pushed aside rather than removed, neither of us having the patience for full undressing. I feel him positioning himself, then the exquisite pressure of him pushing inside me.
"Oh," I gasp, my head falling back against the wall as he fills me completely.
Jake pauses, his forehead pressed against mine, his breathing ragged. "Okay?" he asks, always checking on me, always making sure I’m okay.
"Better than okay," I assure him, rolling my hips to take him deeper.
