Page 110 of Jerk
We stay in our warm goop of a mess, his head pressed to mine, as we catch our breath. I can’t breathe. I can’t speak. I want to ask if he meant what he said or if it was just horned-up bullshit. But that’s when he places his lips against my forehead, and it shatters me entirely.
When he lowers his lips to kiss me again, soft, tender, like he’ll take care of me forever, I know there’s no going back. Not this time.
“Where thefuckdo you think you’re going?”
His croaky voice comes from behind me. It's something I can get used to hearing every morning.
Rye reaches for my hand before my feet even touch the floor. Feeling at home at the Rowens feels surreal. Of all the places I’ve tried to belong, I didn’t think I’d fit here.
“I’m not done with you," he croaks.
“What more could you possibly give me, right now?” It was bound to happen. I’m not sure how many times we’ve made each other see gods last night, and this morning. It wasn’t until the sun pushed through his velvet curtains that we crashed into each other’s arms and fell asleep. “You’ve left me parched, and hydration is the base of this flawless skin.” I let my hand linger in his, my eyes raking his body sprawled across the bed.
Even facedown, he looks like he’s on the cover of a magazine. His silk sheets drape over his body, those muscles still on display. Just for me.
“You saying I’ve left you thirsty?” He brings my hand to his soft lips as a grumble comes from my stomach. He catches it, my cheeks flushing. “And famished?”
“Not the best treatment for your guest,” I tease, sliding my hand out of his hold. Grabbing his shirt from the floor, I slip it over my head, the soft cotton soothing my skin.
“You’re not a guest. Not here.” That feeling fills me again. Warmth. Tightness. Tingles. But before I can ask what that means, he grabs his phone, tapping on the screen. “And I’ll haveAntoine’s eclairs at our door in twenty.” He tosses his phone to the side, popping one eye open towards me. “What? You’re predictable. Your favourite snack hasn’t changed in years. You deserve a good morning. You've had some tough ones."
“Is that an apology?” I ask, hiding my smile.
“Bribery.” He positions himself on one elbow, the sheet slipping down to reveal those abs.
Turning around, I move back to the bed, where he lets me push him on his back so I can climb on top of him, straddling him. “It’s going to take so much more than some pastries to apologize to me, don’t you think?” He stares at me with that darkness in his eyes, and now, I let him pull me in.
“I agree.” He leans up, pressing his lips to mine. I let myself get lost in him, that rush flowing through me, filling me. Warmth. Heat. Fire. We part, and he looks at my face like I'm a piece of precious jewelry. “Hurry up and get that pretty face hydrated so I can continue making it up to you.”
“Yes, sir,” I mock with a smirk he matches.
Could I be figuring out how to get a new internship? Could I be figuring out how the rest of my life looks? Could I be plotting revenge on a certain friend group who never had my back? Yes, yes, and yes. But right now, there’s nowhere else I'd rather be. And I want to bask in that.
A girl deserves it.
“The pastries will be here in ten, so you have exactly that to get my ass.” And boy does he grab a handful. “Back here.” With one last world-shattering kiss, he lifts me off him, helping me to the floor. “Don’t keep me waiting.”
The air in the Rowen mansion is warm when I make my way down the hall. It’s a different kind of lavish compared to my parents' mansion. The Rowens’ home is newer. Sharper. But you can still feel the history in these walls.
Passing by a portrait of his family, my feet slow, his father staring right at me. His mother is next to him with that disappointed look on her face. We’re all fighting our battles in Paradise, but it’s like we all choose to ignore it.
Don’t keep me waiting.
A smile spreads across my face as I crave his body on mine again. Is this really a thing? Could this really work? Or are we just sitting in some post-war glow that’ll eventually fade?
My bare feet slow when I approach the entrance of the kitchen, the lights dim.
Krystal sits on a stool in front of the island with a bottle of gin next to her, her back turned to me. Her dark hair is wet like she just showered or walked through the rain.
“You’re awake,” I say, moving to one of the sleek black cupboards. My cheeks burn when I remember I’m in her brother’s shirt, my hair a mess, smelling like him. Did she hear everything? I mention the bottle, trying to keep it casual. “On the Paradise diet this morning?” Flipping the little tap for the water next to the sink, a stream comes out as I glance behind me. A knife sits in Krystal’s hand, shining under the dimmed lights above the island. In front of her is a framed photo of her father.
“Do you ever feel like you’re broken?” Krystal finally asks. Turning around, I lean against the counter. She doesn’t lift her head, keeping her eyes on that photo. “Or like your body forgot how to react like a normal human?”
“All the time.” Taking a sip, I let the cold water wash down my parched throat. “Why?”
“I didn’t feel anything when our dad died.” Then she laughs, taking a swig out of the bottle. “That’s a lie. I felt relief. And I can’t help it but… I think his death and this scandal were for the better.”
I take a minute to answer, her words lingering in the air.
