Jack gets up to throw away the condom. And I wait in the bed, unsure about what will happen next. Or what I want to happen next.
He comes back and slides under the covers beside me. I roll close to him, rest my head on his chest. He puts his arms around me and kisses my hair.
I’m flooded with warmth and relief. Also sadness. Because he just made me feel so good, so happy. And it’s so—temporary.
“Maddie,” he whispers.
“Mmm-hmm.”
“I want to do it again.”
I smile against the groove where chest meets shoulder. “Right now?”
“Fifteen minutes from now,” he says decisively. “And possibly one or two more times before the sun comes up. And tomorrow night. Can we do it again tomorrow night?”
I laugh. But part of me isn’t laughing. The part that’s watching from a little outside the situation, thinking, How do I protect myself from this? From the way he makes me feel and the way he makes me laugh?
“Jack,” I whisper.
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Just while I’m living here, right? When I move out, it’s a logical end point, and then we don’t have to do the awkward dance when one of us is ready to move on. I don’t want this to make things complicated between us, because we still have to do what’s right for Gabe. I mean, I’m on the rebound, and you’re—you’ve been honest from the beginning about liking your life the way it is.”
I want him to contradict me. I want him to say, That was then; this is now. I’m ready to have my life be different. I’m ready to have my life include you and Gabe.
He’s quiet. Then he says, “That’s smart. Yeah. Just while you’re living here.”
I’m still lying in the same spot, my cheek against his skin. His arms are still around me. But I feel a chill I can’t shake.
He shifts suddenly under me, and for a moment I think he’s pulling away. Then I realize he’s sliding down under the covers, turning as he goes, his mouth trailing across my collarbone and finding a nipple. His hand settles over my other breast, and the contrast between what he’s doing with his mouth—the barest, slightest flitters of sensation, toying with me with his tongue—and what he’s doing with this hand—rolling my nipple tight between two skilled fingers—has me gasping in a second.
“Jack—”
“I like the sound of that,” he murmurs against my breast. He backs off my nipple and teases me with light fingertips, circling closer and closer to where I’m drawn tight but not quite touching it, until, the next time I say his name, I’m pleading.
Then he slowly trails his mouth down my belly, until his shoulders are pushing my legs apart. He pauses there, blowing lightly across my curls, using those callused fingertips to trickle sensation across my spread thighs, touching his lips down here and there until he has me squirming.
He uses his thumbs to open me.
“You’re so pretty,” he says, slicking my moisture all over me, teasing the folds and curves, finding my clit with one fingertip. Then his mouth replaces his fingers, and the whole world shrinks to what he’s doing, to the warm flat and skillful tip of his tongue, to broad strokes and swirls and flicks and the gathering, tightening, urgent, God, violent need he’s conjuring out of me, and then I’m coming, coming, coming, coming.
When I open my eyes, I find him grinning at me over my pubic bone.
“Well,” he says dryly. “Look at us making the most of the shitty housing market.”