“Oh.” He sighs. “That.”
“Yeah. That.”
Jasper drops the towel and closes the space between us, stark naked and confident, cock still full, looking fucking delicious. He puts one hand on each of my knees and pries them open. Keeping my legs clamped together was dulling the ache in my core, and I whimper before biting down on my bottom lip to shut myself up. I’m soaked and I’m sure he knows it.
He steps between my spread legs like he knows he belongs there and lifts his left arm to give me a close-up view of the tattoo.
She’s dainty and has a serene, doll-like expression on her face, hands held up in perfect pirouette position. The ribbons from her pointe shoes wrap around her ankles as she spins, and little dots texture the lace of her tutu.
I reach out and trail the tips of my fingers over the inked tulle as if the texture might be real. But all I’m met with is smooth skin, firm muscle, and a sharp intake of breath from the beautiful man who stands before me. Jasper watches my fingers as I slide them over every detail of the small ballerina tucked safely under his arm.
“What . . .” I shake my head, trying to put my words together in coherent order. “What is this?”
“I thought it would look familiar to you,” he quips, just letting me soak it in as his hips bump against the inside of my thighs. His thick cock so damn close.
My head tilts and I peek up at him. “Why?”
He knows I mean why does he have a ballerina inked on him when the rest are patterns—scales, lines, and geometric shapes that remind me of a kaleidoscope.
His Adam’s apple bobs. “Because I missed your first professional dance.” He clears his throat, staring at my hands and avoiding my eyes. “I wanted to be there so badly after all the times you’d been there for me, so I went and did something that night to commemorate it in my own way.”
I blink my lashes rapidly to clear my eyes. “You said you were reviewing game tape.”
His right hand squeezes my knee and slides up my thigh, fingers sneaking under the hemline of my shorts, dusting up further than ever before. “You really think I’d miss your big night to review game tape?”
“I . . .” I trail off because, no. If I really think about it, I know he wouldn’t. He’s always been there for me, and that night was an outlier. Looking back, it doesn’t make sense for him to miss it at all. “But you’ve come since then.”
“I started coming when I figured your dad wouldn’t be there to catch me. Your debut night was too risky. I saw the show though. I came a few weeks into the run and sat in the nosebleeds by myself.”
I flatten my palm on his ribs and turn my face up to his, his breath fanning out across my wet lips. “Why?”
His pupils shift between my eyes before he sighs and says, “It took me a while to figure that out. Years, in fact, to sort through my feelings, to make sense of them, figure out where they came from and where they were going. I thought you were just a friend. But him telling me to stay away? Him telling me I couldn’t have you? It broke something inside me. Telling me I wasn’t good enough for you? All that did was make me want to be good enough for you.”
I groan. “You have always been good enough for me.”
He grips my chin and regards me carefully under the bright lights. “I never felt like I was. But I do now.”
My head swims with his admission. Excitement quarrels with frustration. Desire wars with self-preservation.
“I need a minute,” is what I come back with as I gently push him away.
And walk out of the bathroom.
After years of longing for Jasper Gervais, I’m in shock. And I can’t think straight with his naked body against me.
I feel wrung out. I feel sad. I feel angry.
I feel so fucking horny I could burst.
21
Sloane
I crawl into my creaky cot, feeling it wobble as I berate myself for being so stubborn that I thought this rickety little kid’s bed—that’s probably seen some nighttime accidents—was a better idea than sleeping in the same bed as Jasper.
The thump of his feet across the room actually shakes the cot. I’ve got my back turned to him and my eyes squeezed shut, so my auditory sense is heightened. I can hear him putting on clothes. The zipper on his bag. The wispy popping noise of his big, stupid head coming through the neckhole of his shirt.
The head that pops up every time I close my eyes lately. How could he have seen me this way for so long and said nothing? Watched me date other Almost marry one?
I guess I should ask myself the same question. Maybe I have a small, stupid head. Maybe we were both so good at hiding it and convincing ourselves that the other could never feel the same that we’ve spent years staring at each other from a distance.
The entire thing is profoundly stupid.
Suddenly I’m aware of the heat of his body behind mine, his soft exhale at the back of my neck as he drops to his knees beside the cot. “What do you think you’re doing?”
His nearness. His voice. It’s too much. A shiver races down my spine, and I clamp my lips tight against each other to stifle whatever desperate little noise would leap from them.
“Going to sleep. You should too. Been a long day,” I whisper back huskily.
“Do you really think that I’m going to let you sleep on this joke of a cot? Or just walk away after that?”
“I don’t need—”
“Come to bed,” he urges, not backing down.
“I am in bed,” I grumble back stubbornly.
“The big bed, Sloane.”
“Seriously, get fucked, Gervais. Go snuggle with your secrets, you exhausting, broody asshole. I’m not leaving this mattress. I’m putting my foot down.”
I peek at him over my shoulder, and he gives me a little smirk. “There she is.”
“Yes,” I huff, turning away and hearing the mattress creak. “Here I am.”
Hands reach between the thin mattress and the metal coils beneath it. I go rigid as Jasper drops his mouth to the shell of my ear. “I told you that you aren’t sleeping here. And I fucking meant it.”
When he lifts me, I squeal. The mattress is so shitty it curls up around me, making me into a little Sloane taco.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I shout at him, not wanting to squirm too hard in my precarious position.
He turns with me and the mattress and all the bedding in his strong hold and takes three long strides toward the bed before gently plopping me down on the king-size bed.
I sit up, glaring at him, but he takes no notice. In fact, he turns around, grabs the cot frame, drags it to the door, and tosses it out into the hallway with a loud metal clang. Then he locks the door struts back to the bed.
Looking all fucking smug and satisfied.
“Did you hear me, Gervais? I asked you what the hell you think you’re doing?”
He flips the covers back on his side of the bed, a few inches lower than where I’m lying beside him, and flops onto the bed.
“Are you smiling?” My voice is shrill now.
“You told me you weren’t leaving that mattress, Sunny. I’m just trying to respect your wishes.”
I punch him in the bicep, and he laughs.
“Your mood swings are out of control. Do you know that?” I drop back down, turning away from him. I punch my pillow, agitation lining every movement. “Everyone talks about women being too emotional. Too hormonal. I’m inclined to think men are the problem. Us women would be just fine without all of you fucking us up.”