And I love it. I love it even more than my release.
I cry out from the pleasure in my heart, as much as the pleasure in my body.
“Oh, fuck, Chloe,” Jack mutters, his thrusts turning into hard, little jerks. “Love, love, love. Oh, fuck.”
It’s not exactly a declaration of undying devotion, but I’ll take it.
Hell, yeah, I’ll take it.
He’s coming now, letting out a loud, low exclamation as he does, his face transforming as the endless need and control and effort turn in that moment into absolute fulfillment.
Then he falls down on me, like his energy is totally wiped out. And I hug him as tightly as I can.
He’s kissing me—just light little kisses glanced against my skin and mouth—and I know he’s given me everything he can.
And that’s all I’ve ever wanted. Really.
Just everything.
***
So here are the top ten reasons to give up your issues about being perfect, no matter how long you’ve held onto them.
One – Sex is a lot better when you’re not trying to be sexy the whole time.
Two – You don’t do a post-mortem after every conversation that doesn’t go exactly the way you want.
Three – You can shrug off an A-. Or even a B+.
Four – You can get over major embarrassments without hoping the ground will open and swallow you up. At least, after the first five minutes.
Five – You don’t feel compelled to stay in a bad situation, just because you think you deserve it.
Six – You don’t assume everyone is judging you.
Seven – You won’t turn down a semester in Paris, just because it seems to come too easy or you haven’t been good enough for it.
Eight – You’ll let people who love you actually love you.
Nine – You might be lucky enough to find a guy who wants you, no matter how imperfect you are. He might want you for your imperfections as much as anything else.
Ten – Sex is a lot better when you’re not trying to be sexy the whole time.
Yeah, I know. I already said that last one. But I’m telling you right now…it bears repeating.
***
I sleep in the next morning because my nine o’clock class is canceled—I think because my professor wanted to start Fall Break early.
This is hardly a matter for complaint.
So I enjoy a more leisurely morning than most Tuesdays allow, and I’m still in bed when Jack comes in the room, fully dressed.
“What have you been doing?”
He shows me a bag. “Got us some breakfast.”
This is a treat unlooked for, and I clap my hands with excitement as I straighten up into a sitting position against the pillows.
He gets in bed with me too and we have coffee and beignets. I’ll worry about the crumbs later.
“I’ve got something to tell you,” I say at last, sipping the last of my coffee.
He turns to me with a questioning expression that looks just slightly anxious—like he thinks I’m going to say something he doesn’t like.
That could, in fact, be true.
But I say it anyway. “I’m thinking I might do Paris next semester after all.”
This surprises him. I see it in the slight jerk and the widening of his eyes. “Really? What made you change your mind? I thought things were settling down here.”
“They are. Things are definitely better. Really good with you, in fact.” I put my hand on his arm as some sort of affirmation of how much he means to me. “But Paris is something I’ve always wanted to do.”
“I know. But you were so sure before that you didn’t want to do it. It was so important for you to stay here.”
“I know. But I think you and my dad and everyone was right. It wasn’t for the right reasons. It was because I was trying to prove something—to myself as much as anyone else. And I think it’s best for me to do…to do what’s best for me.”
I’ve got to admit, I feel pretty dopey as I say that. I almost cringe as I hear the words, even though they’re absolutely true.
Jack doesn’t seem to think they’re strange or silly. He obviously thinks about them for a long time. “That’s good,” he says at last.
“You don’t seem…you don’t seem too happy.”
“Yeah, well, I’m selfish. I wanted you to go before so I could feel like you were safe—from me and everyone else. But now that things are…are better, I don’t want you to be that far away from me.”
“Yeah.” I sigh. “That part really sucks.”
“But don’t let that keep you from doing it,” he says, straightening his shoulders like he’s girding for battle. “It’s only a few months. And I’ll be here when you get back. Plus, maybe I can come out to visit.”
“You better come to visit.” Then I make a face. “But don’t come if you don’t have a job. The trip will be expensive.”
He smiles at me, fully, warmly. “As a matter of fact, I do have a job. I got the call this morning.”
“What job?” I perk up again, since this is good news squared—first Jack is all right with my decision and then he also has a job.
“Just a company here in town. They do security and close protection. It’s not exactly my dream job, but I don’t want to live off my dad’s severance if I can help it. If you go to Paris next semester, I’ll look around for something I like better.”
“Do you think you’ll still want to be a bodyguard?”
He sighs and leans back against the pillow, pulling me to his side. “I don’t know. That’s what my dad raised me to be, but…I’m thinking maybe not.”
“You could always try to be a SEAL. Some sort of Special Forces powerhouse, you know. Do you sing? Maybe you could be a rock star.”
“I definitely don’t sing.” He laughs and bends his head down to kiss my hair. “I’ll think of something.”
“Well, let me know if I can help.”
He lifts my face so I’m looking him in the eyes, and his blue eyes are naked, open, absolutely vulnerable. “Chloe, this is the truth. You have no idea how much you’ve helped me already.”
“Oh. Good.”
“It is good.”
And that might be the final word. Not perfect or finished or fully resolved or even exactly the way it should be.
But good.
Postlude
Jack
She’s moving on top of me, completely naked and as gorgeous as any woman I’ve ever seen.
Her hair is tousled wildly around her flushed face, and her green eyes are deep and hot and eager and so much more. Her breasts jiggle with her uninhibited motion, and I can’t seem to look away.
I’m holding her ass with both of my hands, and it’s soft and small and shaking with the rest of her. Her thighs clench and unclench as she bounces, and it’s obvious how much she wants this. How much she wants me.
She’s riding my cock like she can’t seem to stop, and it means something more than the pleasure it’s giving us both.
Just a couple of months ago, she wouldn’t let go like this. She would have thought and rethought and calculated each move, look, word. She wouldn’t let herself be anything but perfect.
She cries out loudly as she comes, and I can feel her body spasming around me, feel her clawing lines down my chest in her helpless pleasure.
Then I can’t hold myself back anymore. She’s panting and trembling as I ease her off me and then turn her over onto her hands and knees. She’s looking back at me hotly as I pull myself up to my knees and line myself up behind her.
I put my hand between her shoulder blades to guide her down so only her little ass remains in the air. And then I slide myself in. She’s wet—really wet from how much she’s been enjoying this—and so tight and hot I can’t help but groan as I sink inside her.
She’s urging me on, telling me to fuck her, to take her, to make her come again.
That’s exactly what I’m going to do.
My
heart is drumming in my cock and my ears as I start to thrust. I try to hold onto a semblance of control, so I can make this last longer, make her come again and again. But it’s simply impossible. My control broke—perhaps forever—on the first day I saw her, and I’m not sure I’ll ever really get it back.
And it’s okay. Because it feels so good, so right, so free to take her hard and fast. After a minute or two, she’s practically sobbing with pleasure, so I know it’s just as good for her as it is for me.
I can’t seem to hold back my release, but she comes again just in time. I feel her whole body shake with her climax and hear her choked cry and feel her pussy clamp down around me just before I fall over the edge.
It’s falling. Every time. It’s losing any grip I might have had on control or rules or expectations or self-sufficiency.
It’s letting go of who I used to be and becoming who I might be now.
I still don’t really know who that is, but with her it doesn’t seem to matter.
When we both collapse back onto the bed, tangled together in a knot of clinging, sweaty, naked body parts, I feel something I haven’t felt in years.
In years.
It’s something akin to peace.
I can’t say anything—too much has been taken out of me. But I hold her as tightly as I can and hope she knows what I mean.
“That was good,” she says at last. Her voice is cracked, like she’s been screaming.
Maybe she has.
“Yeah.”
“That was really good.”
“Yeah.”
“I think I came three times.”
“Not too shabby.” I say ironic words in a dry voice because it feels familiar, like me, like us. It’s a way to find solid ground again after the freefall. “Give me a minute, and we can do even better.”
She laughs like I made a joke, although I was dead serious.
After a few more minutes, she gets up to go to the bathroom and comes back wearing pink pajamas that have “Princess” written across the front above the picture of a sparkly tiara.
I laugh as soon as I process the outfit and can’t seem to stop.
Looking inordinately pleased with herself, she gets back into bed with me and curls up beside me. I wrap an arm around her and feel her sigh in pleasure.
It doesn’t escape my notice that she likes this part as much as the sex.
“So are you really okay with everything?” she asks eventually.
There’s no segue or prelude, but I know exactly what she’s talking about. “Yeah. I really am.”
“You don’t regret that…that things kind of blew up with your dad…because of me.”
“I already told you I don’t regret it.”
“I know. I just want to be sure. I feel bad about it.”
“Don’t feel bad.” I stroke her long hair and hear her sigh again. “It’s like I said before. It might actually be a good thing.”
“I want you to be happy.”
“I am happy, Chloe.” It’s not entirely true, but I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else in the world than where I am right now. “I’m happy with you.”
“I want you to be happy all the way.”
I want to brush off the comment, since it makes me feel uncomfortable, but I’m trying to do things right with her so I make myself take it seriously. “Maybe I can be. It doesn’t all happen at once.”
She adjusts so she can look up at my face, and her eyes are serious and concerned and loving. Loving. “I know. I want to be happy all the way too.”
I lean down to kiss her wherever I can. It happens to be the side of her head. “I want that too. That’s why I’m not whining about you going to Paris.”
“Thank you, by the way. For not whining. For being supportive.”
“I’ll support anything that’s going to be good for you, anything that will make you happy.”
I mean it. I absolutely mean it. I feel like I’ve learned something about being with another person for real, about giving up control, about trust, about not holding the universe in a tight grip for fear it will all slip away.
But then it happens.
“Oh, by the way,” she says. Her voice hasn’t changed. It’s just a regular Thursday night after sex. There’s no reason I should suspect anything important.
I grunt by way of response, too tired and lazy to form the word.
“Guess who’s going to be in Paris next semester?”
“Who?” I have no idea. Absolutely no idea. Don’t even really care because how can this random conversation be that important.
“It’s really pretty funny.”
“Who is it?” Her expression starts to trigger some warning bells, but they’re too late. Far too late.
“Carter. He got a one-year teaching deal at a university there. Dr. Harwood told me when I mentioned what I was doing.”
There are times when the universe shifts. Right under your feet. And it doesn’t always shift in a good way.
This is one of them.
I stare, gape, manage to choke out, “What?”
Knowing Jack Page 19