Page 156 of Jesse's Girl
I groan.
Jesus fuck.
Taking her face in both hands, I kiss her deep and long. When I tear my mouth away, I’m practically panting. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
She chuckles softly, still working me between her slick hands. “Your dick’s gonna smell like coconut.”
I laugh. “Well, that’s probably the weirdest thing anyone’s ever said to me.” I hiss as she pumps me harder. “Ada. Shit. I’m gonna blow my load if you keep that up.”
“I dunno,” she says. “Could be a good way for me to thank you.”
“For what?”
“Fuck you for what,” she says through a guffaw, her hands slowing to soft strokes. “For staying.”
“Wow, from thank you to fuck you in two seconds flat. That’s impressive, even for you.”
“Well, I’m extremely talented at being—what was your term—a snarky little bitch?”
I smile, then meet her gaze as my expression turns more serious. I run a hand over my dripping face. “Ada, you don’t need to thank me like I’m doing you some favor, here. There was no way I was getting on that flight. Even seeing my packed suitcase was nearly giving me a panic attack. Leaving you would have been leaving a piece of myself behind. You’ve got my heart in your hands.”
Amusement dances over her features. Then, as if on cue, our eyes fall to what Ada’s actually holding in her hands.
“Your heart doesn’t look right,” she says, barely controlling her laughter. She presses her lips into my shoulder, biting at my collarbone in what appears to be an effort to avoid completely ruining the moment. The struggle has her shoulders shaking.
I search the ceiling for patience.
Then she snorts. She snorts! “You should really get that checked out!”
With a warning grumble, I pull her face to mine and shove the bar of soap into her hands. “Alright, laugh it up, Buttercup. You’ve got two minutes to get clean before I make you pay for that.”
36
ADA
Fleetwood Mac’s Dreams plays from the small speaker beside me, drowning out the soft scratch of my pencil against the paper. My knees are pulled up, my heels perched on the edge of the kitchen chair and my sketchbook on the slant of my lap.
Jesse emerges from our bedroom and walks up behind me.
“Hey,” I say absently, totally engrossed in my drawing.
The sketch, currently only a rough outline, is of a woman’s figure suspended in midair, her back in a deep, almost gymnastic bend. Her stomach is drawn up toward the sky and her arms hang down below her. One knee is raised at a graceful angle, the other leg outstretched, and rippled lines explode outward from her chest and abdomen.
“What are you drawing?” Jesse’s voice rumbles close.
Resisting the urge to snap my sketchbook shut, I run a hand through my hair and remind myself he’s had nothing but praise for my art. Still, showing Jesse the beginnings of this piece puts a distinct twinge of self-consciousness in my chest.
“I’m not sure yet,” I hedge, glancing over my left shoulder and absently reaching my hand up to him. It’s half-true.
Stevie Nicks’ quivering voice sings about keeping her visions to herself, and I smile softly at the appropriateness of the lyrics.
He twines his fingers between mine, then lets go to lean down for a closer look.
“It’s just an idea I had,” I explain, filling the silence brought by his scrutiny. Skimming over the page, I try to imagine what he might be seeing—or thinking. “I’m not sure if it’s gonna work yet.” I bite the inside of my cheek, not ready to tell him what it represents—the shift inside me lately.
“I like it.” He pauses. “What’s holding her up?” His warm hands slide over my bare shoulders, a fingertip lifting the strap of my tank top and tracing my collarbone. “Is she floating, or?—”
I lower my feet to the floor and put the sketchbook on the table, scoffing softly. “Something like that,” I say, leaning forward to continue drawing.