Then everything slows. He stares into my eyes for what feels like forever, his hand trailing from my hip to my breast. I watch the pulse in his neck, much faster than usual, before moving my attention to his lips, his nose, and finally his eyes, still on mine.
“Maura?”
The thought of him stopping makes me want to cry.
“Yes,” I whisper, then repeat louder, “Yes.”
Several minutes (hours, days, weeks, lifetimes?) later, too spent to move anything else, I find the energy to purse my lips against his neck in a default kiss. Then, as more feeling returns to my limbs, I drag my arm up and cradle his head against it, raking my fingers through his hair. He shudders and shivers under me, where he ended up after much tumbling and rolling. Our heartbeats pulse where we’re still joined.
He holds me firmly against him while he shifts to his side. Nestling my head under his chin, he runs his index finger up and down my spine. I fade and drift, my cheek against his rising and falling chest.
After a few minutes of silence, as I’m dozing from sheer exhaustion and deep satisfaction, he wakes me by softly saying, “Maura?”
Rendered speechless, I wait, but he doesn’t say anything else. Figuring he’s changed his mind about any pillow talk, I close my eyes and match my breathing to his, deciding I’ve never felt more wonderful in my entire life. It’s not that my former boyfriends were slouches in the sack, but it was never like this with any of them our first time. It took several encounters—and a few miscues—for us to figure each other out. But this… This was inspired. The man is a sexual savant. And I wasn’t too shabby, myself, if I do say so.
I’m far away, analyzing the phenomenon and chalking it up to amazing chemistry, athletic prowess (on his part), and extreme horniness, when Jet’s breathing quickens slightly, and his heartbeat stutters against my ear. I open my eyes, prepared for him to shift position, ending our cozy cuddle session. But he squeezes me more tightly, kisses the top of my head, and says, “I love you,” then tugs the covers over my shoulders.
My eyes wide, I stare at the crease where his arm meets his body until he loosens his grip on me by degrees as he falls asleep and I fall something else entirely.
It’s still dark outside when Jet gently shakes me awake a few hours later. I open one eye but keep the other pinched tightly closed, hoping my face doesn’t look as unattractive as it feels, mere inches from his.
“’Morning, Beautiful,” he whispers, kissing my shoulder.
“What time is it?” I ask, trying as hard as possible not to open my mouth too much in the process.
“Five-thirty.”
I roll onto my back and groan, closing my eyes against the day. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
“You told me to wake you at five-thirty.”
“I’m not mad at you; I’m mad at the morning.”
He laughs. “The morning doesn’t care. You want to sleep another half hour? I’ll work out and take a shower, then get you up again.” Rolling away from me, he moves to sit up, but I reach out and, making blind contact with his wrist, wrap my hand around it.
“No. Don’t go.”
“Okay.” He settles against the pillows once more, on his side. His eyes leave tracers as they roam my profile. His foot runs up my leg, raising goose bumps.
I roll to face him and open my eyes.
His grin rewards my bravery. “There she is!”
“Hey. Good morning.” I mirror his pose, propping my head in my hand, my elbow jammed into the pillows against the headboard. Torn between flattening my bedhead and pulling the sheet high enough to cover my not-so-pert bits, I wind up doing a half-assed job of both and probably look like I’m having a seizure.
He scoots closer to me, playfully tugging down on the sheet every time I nudge it up. I eventually give up and let him have his way, exposing my breasts to the chilly air in the room. My nipples tighten. He stares at them and says, “I should probably ask you how you slept, but I’m having a hard time caring.”
“The key word being ‘hard,’ in this instance?” I tease, feeling more confident, suddenly. I inch closer and kiss his chin, but as I’m about to snake my hand under the covers, he pulls his head back, his eyes suddenly serious as they look into mine.
“Maura?”
Alarmed by the rapid change in his demeanor, I freeze. “What is it?”
Swallowing visibly and audibly, he says, “I have to tell you something.”
Nothing good comes after that sentence. Ever.
Before I can panic that my worst fears are about to come true (or at the very least, he’s going to tell me my breath stinks), he says, “Remember when I came over to your table at the Christmas party, and I said Rae had told me to keep you company while she was busy with Joaquin?”
The tightness in my chest loosens considerably, but not completely. “Of course I remember. I’m not the one who’s taken too many hits to the head.”
My joke fails to raise the tiniest lift of his lips. Instead, he balls his pillow under his head and shifts to get comfortable. “That never happened. Rae didn’t tell me to do that.”
I recall Rae claiming Jet was lying, and not caring then. I still don’t. “So?”
“So… I lied. I feel awful about it.”
“I don’t care.”
“I do. This is going to sound mega-creepy, but I saw you as soon as you got to the party. Then I realized you were Rae’s date, and I was all, ‘Dude…’” His jaw slackens, and he closes his eyes like someone who’s received horrible news.
I laugh.
My reaction relaxes him, and he cracks a smile before continuing, “Then I overheard someone saying he’d embarrassed himself in front of you because he assumed you were Rae’s girlfriend, but you
