Page 72 of The Surrender
“And your dad,” I continue, taking this opportunity and running with it. “Rhys is right. Every time he’s mentioned, I see something change in you.” Chewing his lip, Jude studies me closely as I watch his irises change colour before my eyes. “Like now. Your eyes change colour when you’re angry.”
He blinks, as if he can change that. “My eyes?”
“Yes, they’re darker when something’s bothering you. Bluer.”
“What colour are they when I’m horny for you?” he whispers, coaxing my mouth open, combing his fingers through my hair and gripping.
“Greener,” I mumble around his kiss.
“You make me less angry.” His tongue circles mine so slowly and delicately, his head tilting and turning to go deeper.
“Are you sure?”
“Oh, baby, trust me, I’m sure.”
I retreat slowly, holding his wrist. “Don’t be angry,” I whisper, feeling at his face, my eyes searching his.
“I just need to forgive him for dying,” he says quietly. Because if his dad hadn’t died, neither would’ve his mother. And that explains his anger perfectly. Doesn’t it? “I’m getting there. And that’s all down to you, Amelia.”
And he’s shown me I can have it all. Loveanda career. “I love you,” I whisper, feeling at his rough cheeks.
“I’m grateful.”
“Thank you for sharing this with me.”
Jude nods, taking a deep breath, looking up to the sky. “We’d better move.” Getting to his feet, he pulls me up, and I glance up too, seeing a huge black cloud rolling above us. The sun disappears behind it, dimming the light. “Come on,” he says, putting the glasses and bottle back by the graveside and reclaiming me, just as the cloud seems to burst directly above us, pounding us with bullets of rain.
“Shit!” I yelp, as Jude starts jogging, tugging me along. “Fuck!” My heels sink into the ground, and a foot slips right out, leaving one shoe behind. I start a wonky hobble, Jude’s hand tight around mine. “Wait!” I yell, laughing. “My shoe!”
He stops and looks back, his face, hair, body, all drenched. My gaze drops down to my front. I’m soaked too, rain hammering my body. And I smile, feeling so fucking alive. In a graveyard. I laugh, my eyes on Jude’s body. His shirt stuck to his chest, his nipples visible. His hair plastered across his face. Christ knows what I must look like.
His smile stretches into a grin, his hand raking through his wet hair, as he diverts us back and dips to pick up my shoe, removing the other one from my foot as he does. Then he slowly walks us out of the graveyard, in no rush at all.
Both of us drenched.
Both of us not giving a shit.
Because nothing could ruin the feeling inside right now.
Chapter 16
Pure white with the Arlington Hall crest on the breast, the robe skims my ankles, and the sleeves reach my knuckles. I feel like I’m wrapped in fluffy clouds.
Jude’s tossing something in a pan when I walk into the kitchen towel-drying my hair, and the waft of something delicious—not Jude—invades my senses. He’s in grey sweatpants. Bare-chested. His wet hair is a mess of waves falling around his ears. I’ve never had a type. I do now.
Him.
“Smells good,” I say, perching on a stool and flicking my head down, wrapping my hair in the towel and making a turban. When I lift my head again, Jude’s serving up two plates.
“Spaghetti à la Jude,” he says, sprinkling some basil leaves over the top before sliding my plate across to me.
My mouth waters as I collect my fork, and Jude sets a glass of wine by my plate. “I could get used to this.”
“Do,” he says, joining me, kicking his foot up on the footrest of his stool. “It’s not going anywhere.” He nods at my damp dressing. “That needs changing.”
I smile as I spin my fork in the pile of spaghetti and pop it in my mouth, humming my approval. “You’re good at this.”
“Better than Nonna’s?” he asks coyly, digging into his own plate. I don’t answer, not because it isn’t. “Casey’s the master chef of the family.”
