Page 79 of Unbound
That night, after the house had finally quieted down and Rebecca had settled into the guest bedroom with Elijah’s help, I found Jesse standing in my bedroom, looking out the window at the quiet street. He'd showered, and the sight of him in my clothes hit me like a punch to the chest—both violently tender and uncomfortably intimate. My faded college shirt hung loose around his shoulders, the sleeves swallowing his wrists in a way that shouldn't have been as arresting as it was. The sweatpants I'd thrown at him earlier now rode low on his hips, revealing the sharp V of his pelvis that the modesty of his usual khakis had always hidden.
For a breathless moment, I couldn't move. The domesticity of it was stupidly erotic—the way my clothes dwarfed his frame somehow making him seem both more vulnerable and more himself than I'd ever seen him. The fabric clung to his damp skin in ways that made my pulse spike even as my protective instincts roared. The juxtaposition was dizzying: every swallow of his throat visible where my stretched-out collar gaped. He looked less like a ghost and more like someone who belonged here. Like someone who belonged with me.
"You okay?" My voice came out rough, betraying everything I shouldn't be feeling right now—not when he was still trembling with leftover adrenaline, when the gauze on his leg probably needed changing again. But Christ, the way he turned at the sound—shirt slipping further off one shoulder, revealing the delicate knob of his collarbone—sent heat straight to my groin.
The terror that had been living in his eyes for days was gone, replaced by a quiet exhaustion, and something else. Something new. Resolve.
"They didn't win," he said. It wasn't a question.
"No," I agreed, moving closer. "They didn't."
He reached out and took my hand, his fingers lacing with mine. "Thank you, Adrian. For everything."
"You did the hard part, Jesse. You were so brave today."
He shook his head, a small, sad smile on his lips. "I was terrified. But then I looked at Rebecca... and I looked at all of you sitting there... and I just... told the truth." He took a deep breath. "I want to feel something else now. Besides scared."
His gaze dropped to my mouth, and the air in the room changed. This wasn't the desperate clinging of a survivor. This was want. Clear and simple.
"What do you want to feel?" I whispered, my heart starting to hammer.
He stepped closer, closing the small space between us. "I want to feel good," he said, his voice barely audible. "With you. If... if that's okay?"
"Jesse," I breathed, cupping his face. "It's more than okay."
I kissed him then, and it was different from our protest kiss. That had been a rebellion. This was a discovery. It was slow and tender, until he made a sound in the back of his throat—a choked, needy thing—and pressed into me. His hands weren't just holding me; they were claiming me, sliding up into my hair, his fingers tightening their grip as his tongue met mine. It was a kiss full of desperate, unspoken history.
We stumbled backward and fell onto the bed, a tangle of limbs and newfound courage. I landed on my back against the pillows and he came down over me, straddling my hips, breaking the kiss to look down at me with wide, blown-out pupils. The terror that had lived in his eyes for days was gone, replaced by a raw, uncertain want.
"Adrian," he breathed, like my name was a prayer he'd never dared to speak aloud.
"I'm right here," I promised, my hands coming up to frame his face. His skin was hot, flushed with a heat that had nothing to do with the room.
My thumbs traced the sharp line of his jaw. "We can do whatever you want. Or we can stop. You just have to tell me."
He shook his head, a decisive movement this time. "I don't want to stop." He fumbled with the hem of my t-shirt, his fingers clumsy but determined. "I want... I want to see you."
My heart hammered against my ribs. I lifted my hips, letting him tug the shirt up and over my head. He tossed it aside and his gaze mapped my chest, my shoulders, my stomach, like he was memorizing a new language. His own shirt came off next, and then he was skin-to-skin against me, the friction of his chest against mine sending another jolt straight to my groin.
My fingers found the waistband of his sweats, waiting for his small nod before sliding them down over his hips.
And I stopped breathing.
Burgundy.
Burgundy.
The sweats caught on the rich fabric underneath, and I just stared, my brain short-circuiting completely.
"Jesse," I managed, my voice completely wrecked.
His face went scarlet. "I—" He swallowed hard. "The burgundy ones. I told you I was saving them."
My hands stilled on his hips, thumbs resting just above that band of deep, rich colour. "For what?"
"For this. For you." His voice was barely a whisper. "For when I was ready to be seen."
Something in my chest cracked wide open. I couldn't speak. Couldn't think. Could only stare at him—at Jesse Miller in burgundy underwear he'd chosen, planned, saved for this exact moment.
