True Divide (27 page)

“No. I've been
waiting
for you. For so long. Forever.”

Jake hears the slight break in my whispering voice and cranes back to take in my face. When he does, his expression weakens into a tender half smile. Then his forehead comes to press against mine. “Ah hell, Lace.” Another whispered sigh. “Me, too.”

We stay that way, foreheads pressed together, breathing heavily, for so long it feels weighted and nearly burdensome, us fighting and holding this moment so it might become more tangible. Then I can't stand it one second longer. I can't handle not touching him or kissing him, so I give up on a moan and dive in. Mouths together, colliding and gasping, until I press toward him again, hoping this time he will give me what I want. But I'm thwarted once more, this time almost forcefully. Jake thrusts his body against mine and sufficiently pins me to the mattress with his weight.

“Please. Just let me strip this lace off you and feel you all night. I need tonight to be about making love to my girl. Can you give me that?”

I consider flopping my head back and forth against the pillows to tell him no, because it sounds torturous. Jake and I don't do slow. We do frenzied and fierce. And we do it well.

But Jake lays a long slow kiss on me and asks again. Finally, I nod my head, giving in to the sublime agony he's intent on doling out tonight.

“Thank you. I promise to fuck you a hundred different filthy ways after tonight. Just the way you like it. But tonight we'll go slow, and I swear, every time you come, the wait will be so worth it.”

I barely get another whimper out when his hands start to pull the lace babydoll up and off me. Once it's across the room, tossed in the way he prefers—the go-slow approach not applying there, evidently—Jake is on his knees staring down at me. A soft little smile wanes when he starts to rub up and down my legs, pulling one up to perch on his shoulder so he can trace my calf with his lips, kissing and licking the length all the way to my knee. A repeat performance on the other leg so that both are resting against his shoulders. Once his mouth has decadently tortured both legs, he gently cranes forward, mouth tracing an inner thigh but keeping his hands braced along the outside, so my legs stay pressed against him.

By the time his mouth finds the aching space between my legs, he's lying prone on his stomach, and his breath there does nothing but make me want to scream. To bellow obscenities and sweet nothings. To beg and demand. But I don't. If he wants slow, I'll give in. I'll lie here and settle in, wait for it all, experience everything. Because, no question in my mind, it's going to be worth it. Just like he promised.

I know this because no matter how much I may have felt hollowed out for the last few years, when he wandered back into my life, I was ruined. Jake showed up, and despite every time I tried to act like I couldn't or shouldn't want to keep him, my heart knew nothing less than everything would do.

Two fingers slip inside me. Slowly. Inches across the time it might take to cover miles. When he seats them with a twist and curl, I can't lie here quietly anymore because the stretch and pressure are too good. A heavy moan follows, on until I move my hips into the pressure and he starts to move those thick fingers. In and out, tips to base, his tongue drawing a figure eight around my clit. Each time I give a tiny panting noise, he gives more pressure and moves his fingers faster, rewarding me for those moments of yielding to him. I keep going, through every curl of his fingers to the spot I know will give me what I want.

I take a deep breath and try not to throw my body across his and take what I need. I want to curse him but bite down on my lip instead. If I stifle the words of demand, he might get back to it. Another deep breath. This time it actually works.

He feels it. Offering his mouth to my clit again, he doesn't hold back this time. Sucking, licking, devouring. Relentlessly until it's almost enough to tip me over the edge. I try to keep it all in but fail, and start to pant and twist into every thrust of his fingers and flick of his tongue. As if giving his permission, he starts to groan against me, the sound muffled by the full press of his mouth against me. But he keeps on and when he lets a long, lurid grunt escape, I'm done. Every second of him taking me there patiently, erupts into a climax that hazes my mind and doesn't let up. Only when I push on his head to make it stop, because that small spot is suddenly too sensitive, does he loosen his hold on every part of me.

No rational thought alerts me to him moving up my body. His cock pressing against my opening, only the reflexive reaction of our skin slipping across each other signals a tilt in my hips to meet the nudge of him taking me. Only when he's moving inside and muttering the word “slow” do I manage to grasp on to him with my arms and legs. He's trying to calm himself with the mantra, and knowing that Jake can't quite control himself nearly threatens to drown me. I want him to break. With me, over me, inside me.

So deep, finally, he starts to move in deliberate strokes, and when I open my eyes, his are clenched closed almost painfully. Why he wants us to torment and deny ourselves just to go slow, I don't understand. I draw my hands up to cup his face gently. His eyes flick open instantly, as if I've just jerked him free of a trance.

“Please.” I whisper the single word. One word and he knows everything I'm trying to say with it. Please, give me this. All of you. Stop holding back because of whatever idea you've concocted in your head about what this should be like. Let's just do us; that's enough.

Jake's eyes twitch and his gaze flickers across mine. I whisper the word again.

A tiny smile teases one corner of his mouth. And right then, all I can see is a man who has only one place to be. One single, solitary spot on earth where he belongs. A place he could find in the dark, at the end of the world, if he had to. Seeing that and knowing it's for me means that no matter how we finish this, the man is making love to me.

Then he breaks into a rhythm, the one I know so well, the one that sends my eyes rolling back into my head and ends only when we're both losing our minds. I get all of him, without pause. Arms braced on either side of my head, tense and working under every move. His jaw slightly open, eyes clenched again, voice growing husky with every groan. When I let go, he feels it and hears it, his pace stuttering just enough for me to know he's coming with me for this one.

He starts to tremble there, braced above me and trying not to crumple under the onslaught. And all I want is for him to give in and let me take all the weight for once. I wrap my arms around him and give a pull on his body until he yields and collapses against me. Our damp bodies wilt together, slick and heated and perfect.

17

I
n the morning, I wake to the sound of Jake puttering about. So much for sleeping in, I guess. We have such vastly different definitions of that term. He's standing on the veranda, wearing a pair of board shorts and flip-flops, sipping on a cup of coffee and watching something in the sky.

“You are the worst sleeper-inner of all time, you know that?” I say, in a half holler, to make sure he hears me.

He only laughs and continues to peer up above him. Grumbling, I decide to give up on the idea of going back to sleep and shove the bedsheets off, then shuffle my way out to him.

Standing this way, half-dressed and stretching his torso with his head tipped back, there is something robustly compact about him, a potent energy that he could wreck you with, but won't. At least, not in an entirely bad way. I drag one fingertip down his chest and watch his abs tighten up under the pressure.

“Why do you look like this?”

“What?”

Jake drops his gaze and looks at me, his lips curling into a little confused grimace. I trace my fingers along the low-slung waist of his shorts, his sun-warmed skin already a little damp just under the fabric's edge.

“Why does your body look like this?”

“Like what?” Without seeing his face, I can somehow hear the grin he's now sporting.

“God. You're going to make me say it, aren't you?”

“Yup.”

“Fine.” I tip my head up and take a peek at him, then return to tracking the path of my wayward fingers. “Why does your body look so good? I mean, there's nothing less than perfect about it. Nothing.”

Jake chuckles and pulls my hands away from his skin.

“Glad you approve.” He kisses my fingertips and gently returns them to his waist. “I don't know, I'm not a gym rat or anything. When I finished my first season on the fishing boat, I was kind of stunned at how my goofy skater body looked after that. It's hard-ass work and your body adapts. Being in the bush after that, there's just a lot of physical work, loading and unloading cargo, jumping in and out of planes, dragging cables and shit. Now that my job is as cushy as it gets, I try to surf every day. If I'm home too long and can't fucking stand all the people, I hike or rock climb up in the mountains.”

“Do you like it there?”

“In Santa Monica?” he asks and I nod. “It's fine. Not sure I'll want to live there forever or anything, it's so fucking expensive. I've never stayed any one place this long, honestly. I'm usually good for a couple of years and then I'm itching to move on.”

Turning away, I strip off the shirt of his I slept in and step into the infinity pool. Within the first hour of our stay, we figured out that is the single best thing about the suite's privacy: clothing and suits are optional. We will be lucky if I ever get a chance to wear that bikini while we're here. Jake mutters a string of quiet curse words when I do my best seductive water-nymph entrance into the pool. I shimmy over to the edge, where the perimeter drops off to create the infinity illusion, and perch my chin in my hands.

“Do you think I would like it there?” I ask, not moving my gaze from the view in front of me.

When he joins me in the pool, the water moves in small waves until he is close enough to wrap his arms around my waist, then sets his chin on my shoulder.

“I think so. We'll have to see, won't we? You need to come stay with me. I rent this totally overpriced, tiny-ass house that you might hate, but it's close to the beach. I'd take you to this little café I love. They make these doughnuts, they're killer.” A kiss comes to land on one temple. “Promise you'll come stay with me, OK? I want you in my house, in my bed, everywhere. Knowing you've been there will make it easier when we're apart. Promise?”

The words seem a little hard to say. Still, I manage a head nod and the murmur of a promise, one so quiet I might be able to claim he misunderstood me later on.

Over the next nine days, we do everything. Snorkel and scuba dive. Sleep in until we miss breakfast. Skip lunch in favor of sex. Decide we have to eat and force ourselves to the dining room so we won't be tempted to get naked again. Try not to make out too overtly while in said dining room. Send knowing glances to each other when Jake's new best friend Gabe corners him at the omelet station and talks his ear off about the merits of kayaking versus parasailing.

There were a million moments when I thought: tell him. Tell him about Ruth Ann giving you The Beauty Barn. But it's been over a month now, and somehow, waiting this long feels like I've now waited too long. That there was a time limit on sharing this information, and now I've gone well past it and no matter what, it's going to be weird when I finally do.

Still, I do try. I would summon up the fire, open my mouth to talk, and then Jake would say something sweet or lurid or wonderful.

“Go put on that bikini, with the shoes and the belly chain. Then come out here and I'll rub this suntan oil all over you. Extra on your chest. And ass.”

“Have you seen any parrots? Shouldn't there be parrots everywhere? I thought that was a given in the tropics. I'll feel cheated if we don't see at least one parrot.”

“I decided that I think you would like Santa Monica. My girl would be on the beach constantly. Tan lines. Always.”

Then it's time to pack up. The night before our last day, we shove our things in suitcases and try to avoid looking at each other. I head into the bathroom to gather up the things I won't need again, and when I come back out, Jake is staring out at the ocean.

Jake turns his head slightly to see me, then returns his gaze to the view.

“We should get married.”

I was on my way over to him, planning to drop the makeup bags in my suitcase and wrap my arms around his waist to wait for one of his sweet kisses to find me. Now I'm stuck in the spot where I halted upon hearing those obviously insane words.

“What?”

“We should get married before we leave. I mean, seriously, is there a better place in the world to get hitched?”

I find my bearings again, likely because he just said “get hitched,” which makes the whole thing sound like a joke. “Knock it off, Jake. All those salty ocean breezes are going to your head. Be serious.”

“I am serious. Well, like, ninety percent serious.”

Shaking my head, I make my way over and give a little shove to his side with my elbow. “Marriage requires one hundred percent serious.”

Jake draws his arm over my shoulders and tugs until I drop my head to rest against him. After a moment, he kisses my forehead and lowers his voice. “Does it? Because I think if we go with ninety percent serious and ten percent ‘fuck it, why not?' we're already way ahead of most people.”

No response comes to me, other than the instinct to snort a quiet laugh and give his ribs another shove. Jake sighs.

“You've never considered it? Us doing this up right?”

Being married to Jake? Oddly, marriage hasn't crossed my mind. Not really, anyway. A wedding? A marriage certificate? Joint checking accounts? Those things shout of tying down a man who I never considered could breathe under that kind of permanency.

“Didn't figure you for the marrying type.”

“Never thought I was.”

His quiet words hang between us until another kiss lands on my forehead. “Maybe I'll ask you again someday. Maybe I'll write a love poem and get on one knee. Maybe I'll wait until you're lying on the bed after I've just outdone myself and you're all spent, and ask you then. Maybe you'll say yes.”

I don't respond. I can't because I have to focus. If I let my mind get away from me, I'll end up picturing all those things. Every painfully sweet, tender moment of having Jake say he wants me forever. Knowing how perfect that might be.

A knock at our suite door soon presents us with yet another unobtrusively accommodating staff person, this one equipped with a chilled bottle of rosé and a platter of delicate canapés. We nosh until the sun starts to set, then I give up the warm spot on Jake's lap I had spent the last hour nestled in, and head in to take a bath.

After that, it felt like it was too late to tell him anything else.

We don't even pretend to play the Jake-sits-with-Lacey-and-doesn't-pout game once we get on the plane to go home. Jake just looks at me, brows raised, then grins when I wave my hand into the empty air. A quick kiss to the top of my head and he starts down the center path as I settle into my seat, arranging my glass of champagne and trying to decide which magazine to read first.

Seconds after I flip open the cover page on my selection, Jake is in front of me again. As in, dropped onto one knee in front of me. I don't move my head, merely draw my gaze up and over him. His hands are fidgeting, one braced on the arm of my chair and the other resting on his knee, twitching.

Oh God. He isn't. He can't be.

We've made lighthearted, pseudo-real comments here and there, but we've never sat down and had a significant conversation about the topic, covering things like kids, and money, and a whole host of other crap that would be important to discuss, before he did this.

Jake's eyes skitter about before finally settling on mine. “Lacey.”

“Yes.” I draw the word out excessively. Slowly. Buying time. Hoping this is a joke. Praying he's about to proclaim, “Gotcha!” and topple over in a fit of manly giggles.

Instead Jake sighs and then takes a long inhale. “I can't give you this. You know that, right? All this? The private planes and fancy vacations to places that probably cost more than I make in a year? I can't give you any of that. I don't have Trevor's bank account.”

“Not many people do.”

“I probably don't even have what Trevor carries in his wallet on a day-to-day basis. I drive a workhorse of Toyota truck that's fifteen years old. I'm a renter. But I know you like this stuff, and if you want someone who can whisk you away to one of these places, then you have to know I'm not that guy. I'm not a deadbeat, but this is a whole other level, one I can't keep up with.”