Page 41 of Jasper

“Good morning,” I whisper.

She blinks slowly, and we stare at each other, caught in the silence that stretches between us. It’s not awkward. It’s not uncertain.

It’s the certain knowledge we both have that there’s something between us. And whatever it is, it’s growing.

I reach out carefully, giving her time to pull away if she wants, even though it will gut me if she does. My fingertips brush the side of her face, tracing the soft line of her cheek, the curve of her jaw. Her skin is warm beneath my touch, so delicate it feels like a sin to lay a hand on her. She leans into it slightly, her eyes never leaving mine.

My pulse kicks up hard. At the same time, my cock throbs almost painfully. Fuck, I can’t remember the last time I’ve wanted a woman so badly. I love sex as much as any man, but it’s never been a need. Not like it is now, with Ariana.

Unable to control myself, I do what I’ve wanted to do since the moment I laid eyes on her.

I kiss her.

It’s not rushed. Not desperate. Just slow, tender, and deep in all the ways that matter. Her lips part for me like she’s been waiting for this, too, like sheknewit would come.

I keep it soft yet controlled.

One kiss. Just long enough to feel it in my bones.

When I finally pull back, her eyes blink up at me, glassy with sleep and arousal. And as I stare back at her lying beside me, warm and flushed in my bed, I make a decision that I hope I won’t regret.

She’s mine.

And I’m never letting her go.

16

ARIANA

Ilie still, my heart beating a little too fast, the air between us charged with tension. My lips still tingle, the taste of him lingering there. Something soft and wanting curls deep inside me.

My hand moves before I’ve even thought it through. With instinct, need, and curiosity, I brush my fingers gently against his chest. It’s bare and warm under my touch.

He’s solid muscle, broad and strong, like a statue carved from stone. My fingertips glide across his skin, skimming over the hard lines and contours of his body, tracing all the lines of ink.

His tattoos are dark and sharp and beautiful.

Each one tells a story that I want to know about. Symbols, lines, some words in a foreign script. I trace one that curves over his ribs, and even though he doesn’t move, I feel the shift in his breathing. Subtle. Controlled. The man is so controlled.

Yet, all I can think about isthathe kissed me.

Not a friendly kiss.

Not a brush of lips meant to tease.

It was slow. Deep. Like he meant something by it. Like it wasn’t a mistake.

And now, I don’t know what to do with that.

Does he like me? As in,reallylike me? Or was that a moment between two adults who slept in the same bed?

Is this just physical for him?

The thought settles heavy in my chest. I’m still tracing the tattoos, but my hand has gone still, resting over his heart. There’s steady beat beneath my palm, and it both grounds me and makes my breath catch.

He moves, his hand lifting, curling under my chin, tipping my face up toward his.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he says quietly, though there’s still that stern edge to it.

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