Page 63 of Blocked Shot
Jake lies tangled up with Natalie in the soft, flickering glow of the dying fire, her bare skin a living warmth pressed against his chest. The wind howls outside, rattling the windows and tugging at the edges of the world, but here in this bubble of heat and her soft, sleeping breath, he feels like the storm couldn’t touch them even if it tried.
For the past twenty-four hours, they’ve lived like the world doesn’t exist, like time hit pause just for them.
They’d made love in every corner of her house—wild and breathless on the rug, where he’d watched her fall apart under him with laughter still on her lips. Slow and aching on the couch, where the firelight danced across her skin and made her look like something out of a dream. And then bent over the kitchen counter, candlelight throwing shadows on the wall as he gripped her hips and drove into her until she was shaking, her hands clawing at the tile, begging him not to stop.
It was not only the way they moved together in heat and hunger that made these hours unforgettable, but the quiet moments in between. The way she laughed, unfiltered and radiant, when she accused him of cheating at Scrabble with another suspicious seven-letter word. The way she bundled herself up like a marshmallow to shovel a path to the grill, then held up two freezer-burned burgers like she’d just unearthed buried treasure. They’d eaten them on the floor with half-melted ice cream, their thighs pressed together, her foot tangled with his like she can’t bear not touching him.
And when the hot water dwindled, they’d taken the last warm shower together. Steam curled around them like fog in a dream, and she’d stood behind him, gently working the suds from his hair, her fingers massaging his scalp, memorizing every part of him. He’d circled his arms around her waist, holding her close.
He glances down at her, her lashes resting against her cheeks, lips parted slightly in sleep. He could look at her forever. Could spend the rest of his goddamn life waking up with her tangled in his arms.
He’s fucked her a half dozen ways since yesterday, made her scream, made her whimper, made her shake. And somehow, what undoes him most is this—her body soft and sleeping against him, trusting him with her rest.
It was easy—so easy—to pretend this was his life, that nothing outside the storm mattered. For the first time in as long as he can remember, Jake let himself surrender to the fantasy without thinking about what came next. Because here, in this perfect, fleeting moment, there was no next. There was only her.
When the fire crackles low, its embers barely clinging to life, he knows it won’t last much longer. He shifts, ignoring the sharp protest of his ribs, and presses a lingering kiss to Natalie’s temple before carefully untangling himself from her embrace.
“What are you doing?” she murmurs.
“Fire’s going out,” he says, already sitting up, already reaching for his discarded sweatpants. His body protests the movement, pain flaring deep in his side, but he keeps his expression neutral as he stands. No way is he letting her see how bad it really is.
Natalie props herself up on her elbows, watching as he kneels by the hearth, bare back flexing as he stokes the embers.
“You’re stiff,” she observes.
Jake exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “It’s nothing, Nat.”
Her gaze drops to his side, taking in the tension in his posture, the way he moves like an old man trying to keep himself from breaking. She says nothing, but gets up, gathering the blanket around herself as she disappears into the kitchen.
Jake sinks into the couch, head tipping back with a low, exhausted sigh. His injured ribs ache—hell, they hurt like a bitch—but then he looks at her, walking away with the blanket slipping down to reveal the curve of her back, and a slow, satisfied grin tugs at his lips.
Yeah. This is worth the pain.
A minute later, she’s back, pressing a glass of water and two Advil into my hand. “Take these,” she commands, standing over him like some fierce little warrior. “Then lie down.”
He smirks, swallowing the pills. “Bossy.”
“Damn right.” She nudges him until he slides down, his head resting on the cushioned armrest. Her fingers sweep through his hair, gentle, soothing.
A knock echoes from the front door, startling them both. Jake turns sharply, wincing at the sharp jab of pain in his ribs.
“I’ll get it,” Natalie says, already reaching for his sweatshirt. She pulls it over her head, the fabric swallowing her whole, sleeves hanging past her fingertips as she tugs the hem down over her bare thighs. Something tightens in his chest at the sight. It’s ridiculous, really, how much he enjoys seeing her like this, how much he wants to keep her wrapped up in him, in every possible way.
He watches her disappear down the hall, listening as the door creaks open, muffled voices drifting into the room. A moment later, she returns, arms crossed against the chill.
“That was my neighbour Claude checking on me,” she says, settling back onto the couch beside him. “He said cell service should be back soon, and power should be restored by tomorrow morning. The rural areas like ours are the last to get our power back.”
Jake exhales through his nose, nodding. “Good. Guess that means I’ll be out of your hair soon.”
She frowns at that, but doesn’t argue.
But as the fire crackles and the night stretches on, a new tension coils in his chest, something deeper, more insidious than the pain in hisribs. The outside world is creeping back in. This pleasant bubble of isolation they’ve been living in—the stolen moments, the quiet intimacy—it’s slipping away. The power will come back, their phones will light up with messages, the roads will clear, and reality will crash back into them. And then what? He doesn’t know. All he knows is that the thought of losing this, of losing her, is a different pain entirely.
As if sensing his unease, Natalie shifts beside him, resting her chin on his chest.
“I’m going to tell Jesse,” she says softly, her fingers tracing slow, soothing circles on his skin. “When the time is right. I don’t want to hide this forever.”
Relief washes over him, warm and unexpected. He hadn’t wanted to push, hadn’t dared to hope she’d be willing to take that step. But hearing her say it—knowing she wants this, wants him—loosens something inside him. He cups the back of her head, threading his fingers through her hair, and presses a kiss to her forehead.
