“Because it is the hard thing,” I would say in my wise-old-sage-from-a-fantasy-film voice. “And the hard thing is hard.”
And then we’d laugh and deconstruct every second of her evening, from the hand-holding to the making out to the post-drop-off text. I had so much fun swooning vicariously through Claire that it took years for me to realize that I’d never said the hard thing.
I still haven’t said it.
I don’t think I’ve ever even felt it.
But now, staring up at this piece and the gorgeous man who helped me bring it to life, I’m feeling things, all right.
Hard things.
Beautiful, hard things that I don’t want to keep inside.
“This morning,” I say, my voice thick with emotion, “I was out with my mom. She invited me to join her at Cocoa is Love.”
“Ah, your church,” he says.
I smile. “Basically. I was helping her with samples for a new recipe and it just felt so . . . good, you know? Felt good to be there for her, even in a small way. She and Dad helped me so much the past two years—looking out for me, getting my groceries, walking me to physical therapy. Not to mention paying my rent when I was still too broken to work. And whenever I was sad or depressed or just needed a hug, Mom was always there, even when I made it hard.” I take a deep breath. “I wasn’t always a model patient. Sometimes I just wanted to quit . . . everything.”
His fingers curl a little deeper into my shoulder muscle. “You never told me that.”
I press my lips together, glancing down at the dusty, cigarette-butt-littered floorboards. “There was one morning . . . it was just Mom and me. I’d cried my eyes out and told her how empty I felt. How empty everything felt. How lost I was. And she just listened. Listened and said that we all feel lost sometimes, but that she would always be there to help me find my way home.”
I draw a shaky breath, gazing at the mural again, then at this man by my side. “I obviously don’t know what it’s like to be homeless. I don’t know what it’s like to be scared or cold or hungry, or to not have a place to go. But I know how grateful I am that I had family and friends to help me, comfort me.” I sniff and push a few frizzy strands of hair from my forehead. “I hope this gives Norman and the other people who stay here some comfort too. Maybe it’ll remind them that there’s still hope out there . . . still a reason to believe that things can get better.”
Jesse wraps his arm around me. “I hope so too.” He stares at the mural glowing warmly in the last of the sunset. “I think it will. Even if someone didn’t have a great relationship with their mother or their parents, this goes deeper than that. This is about support. Connection. Unconditional love. And we can all have that, no matter what kind of family we come from.”
“Yeah,” I say, my throat tightening again. “Though, I probably should have thought about that sooner. I bet most people who end up sleeping in a place like this don’t have a lot of happy family memories in their past.”
“You might be surprised. Most of the homeless people I’ve talked to have pretty ordinary stories up until the moment things went wrong.” He sighs. “We’re all closer to the edge than we think.”
My stomach clenches, his words banishing the happy, sparkly list effect for the first time since we started this adventure. Unbidden, my thoughts turn back to this morning, to feeling so happy to be with my mom, but also . . . off. Like I was with the right person, but in the wrong place or something.
Though, how a place that serves chocolate could be wrong, I have no idea.
“Spit it out,” Jesse murmurs.
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. You went all stiff,” he says, “and you’re making your thinking sound.”
I snort. “What?”
“Your thinking sound. That little throat-grunt thing you do when you’re thinking hard.”
I jerk my head to the side, brows furrowed, even as I smile at him over my shoulder. “I do not grunt when I think.”
He smiles calmly, sexily, making me suddenly aware of how close we are and how nice it feels. “You do. It’s cute. Now, spit it out. This is the unconditional place. You can say anything here with no judgment. Not from me and not from you or anyone else.”
I bite my lip, part of me wanting to take him up on that offer, while another, far more determined part crosses its arms over its chest, sits down on top of the can of worms in the corner of my mind, and refuses to budge.
There’s something there, all right, but whatever it is, I’m not ready to get to the bottom of it.
“Is it weird that sometimes I don’t know why I’m feeling what I’m feeling?” I ask, instead of confessing that I have a can of worms in my mental closet. “That sometimes it’s almost like I’m at war with myself?” I let out a shaky little laugh. “I mean, it’s not like voices in my head or anything, but there are definitely parts of me that keep secrets and refuse to work well with each other.”
“Hell, yeah, that’s weird,” he says, laughing and then holding me tight as I try to push him away—in a playful way, since I don’t want to be apart from him. I feel closer to him as we talk like this. Closer, too, because we made art together. That’s a bonding experience.
I tug him back so he’s side by side with me again as he adds, “I’m kidding. Of course, it’s not weird. That’s why we have therapy and mentors and friends we really trust. Sometimes shit gets complicated, and you need a referee to help you play nice with yourself.”
“I’ve played with myself enough the past few years,” I mutter, eager to change the subject.
Heat flares in his eyes, the way it has every time we brushed up against each other while we were working. Until my emotional eruption, the sexual tension was thick enough to cut.
Now, it comes rushing back, making my voice breathy as I add, “I mean, there comes a time when you want to play with . . . a friend. You know?”
“I do know,” he rumbles softly, inching a little closer, moving behind me. “I absolutely fucking know. But do you, if you aren’t sure why you’re feeling what you’re feeling?”
His questions are valid to a degree.
But my uncertainty has nothing to do with him.
It’s an amorphous Big Life Questions uncertainty.
There are zero questions about Jesse Hendrix.
Especially right now, right here, with art and anticipation in the air turning me on.
“I’m unsure about some things,” I say softly, perhaps as an invitation. “Not about others.”
“What are you sure about?” he asks, his voice low and smoky.
“I know what I’m feeling about this.” I press against him, molding my back to his front, my heart stuttering as I feel the thickening behind the fly of his cargo shorts. He still wants me, and I want him more than I’ve ever wanted . . . maybe anything except to be whole again.
I circle my hips, rubbing against his erection, electricity shooting across my nerve endings as his lashes flutter and a soft grunt escapes from low in his throat.
I smile. “You grunt when you’re turned on.”
“Which is way more normal than grunting when you’re thinking,” he says, his big hand molding to my ribs beneath my breast, making my heart beat faster as he pulls me even closer.
“Good thing I don’t want to be normal,” I say, my nipples tightening in my bra and every inch of me aching for more of his touch.
“You couldn’t be if you tried,” he says, husky. “You’re extraordinary.” His other hand drops to the bottom of my overall shorts, his fingers skimming beneath the hem, caressing the curve of my ass just below my panties. The feel of his bare skin on mine is enough to make the room spin. “But are you sure?”
“So sure,” I say, my breath coming fast as I turn in his arms, smoothing my palms up his chest to link my wrists around his neck. My body celebrates as my tingling nipples press against his firm muscles. “Are you? Did you sleep on it?”
I tense as I wait for his
answer. He’s the one who applied the brakes last night.
His hands roam up my ass, cupping my cheeks, and that sure feels like a yes, I slept on it and want to have you all to myself right now.
He pushes against me. “I did. And then I saw you with that douche nozzle.”
I laugh, both nervous and curious. “And?”
He squeezes my ass hard. “And I felt possessive. And jealous. And I want you all to myself. So, yes, I’m sure.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. Or maybe it’s a turned-on sigh, since I’m aching for him.
That’s partly because we’re talking about what we want. We aren’t simply humping, though I do want to do that. Very much.
But the conversation makes me tingle.
It’ll make what comes next even better.
“Good. Me too. And I know you’re leaving, and I know things will go back to the way they were between us after you go, but for now . . .” My tongue slips out to wet my lips. “I just want to feel good again, and I want to make you feel good. We’ve had enough pain, Jesse. I think we deserve pleasure—don’t you?”
That’s the heart of the matter, the thing I’ve landed on. It’s the list effect, and the list is about good things in life.
Sex with someone you care about—and of course we care about each other—has got to be a good thing.
“You do, for damned sure.” He keeps one hand on my ass while the other roams up to my hair. His fingers thread into the strands and make a light fist, sending my blood zooming beneath my skin all over again. “You deserve all the pleasure, and I’m going to give it to you. But I have one rule—if this interferes with the list, we stop. The list comes first.”
I nod slowly, holding his hooded gaze as I say, “As long as I’m coming second.”
He curses beneath his breath, and his lips twitch up at the edges. “You’re sexy as fuck. You know that?”
I grin, and my heart stretches its wings, gives them an experimental flutter.
Maybe I am sexy. Maybe I am irresistible.
At least, I am in this moment, with this man.
And what do we really have other than this moment? This beautiful now that tonight I’m determined to make even more beautiful.
“Take me home?” I whisper.
“This very second,” he promises, leaning down to grab my backpack from the floor at our feet.
But the backpack is heavy. Filled with the second thing I wanted to leave here tonight. Not only art, but some food and water.
With lightning speed, we empty my pack, leaving behind bottles of water and a few dozen energy bars.
Food, water, and art.
Perhaps that trio will give a little hope and some sustenance.
This is number four on the list, but with an addendum. Something extra, because that’s what the list is doing, it seems—helping me, and maybe others too.
In small ways, but those can be the ways that matter most.
Minutes later, we’ve corralled the empty spray-paint cans and are hurrying back across the creaking floorboards to the vine-covered window where we crept inside earlier this afternoon. Jesse slips out first, taking the backpack with him.
Once he’s on the ground, he lifts his arms to help me down.
With my leg swung over the windowsill, I take a beat to drink him in. With paint smeared on his sexy forearms and that look of anticipation on his face as he reaches up to catch me, he is . . . beautiful. So beautiful it rips at the door of my heart again, tugging it open even wider, making me suspect this organ in my chest is what the list is really about.
Claire didn’t leave me just individual missions. She left a bigger, underlying challenge.
It’s about being brave enough to open up to the world, to let it all in—the good and the bad, the things that are going to hurt like hell, and the things that are heavenly and sweet and healing. If I want the beauty, I’ll have to risk the pain.
But that’s okay. Maybe I’m strong enough to handle it all. Claire thought I was, and who knew me better?
No one. Maybe not even myself.
With a final glance back at the mural, that ten-foot tall manifestation of my previously untapped potential, I draw my other leg over the sill, brace my hands against the wood, and jump.
14
Jesse
Inside my apartment, I am buzzed.
My bones hum with desire.
My throat is dry.
Anticipation is killing me and turning me on at the same damn time.
Especially when Ruby unhooks the front of her overall shorts, tugs off her tank, then slides down the strap of her bra.
Nibbling on her lip.
Giving me a shy, but eager smile.
Ready.
So damn ready.
Just like I am.
After all these years.
Years.
Hell, that’s what this is.
Years in the making.
Since she stretched out on my car during college.
Since we picked cherries that summer.
Since she walked into my shop two days ago with pie on her face.
This feels inevitable.
I could deny it. I could pretend tonight is born of the list, fueled by the last two nights of connection.
But the list is teaching both of us. She’s opening her heart and mind to new possibilities.
And I’m seeing the one in front of me.
Her.
She was never mine, and she’ll never be mine, but she’s the woman I want.
The woman I’ve wanted.
Desperately.
When I lift my hand, brush my fingers along her shoulder, I shudder.
Because this moment feels meant to be.
Once I admit that to myself, I release a shaky breath and let go of all the reasons I held back in the past.
For tonight—hell, for the next few days—there are no more limits.
No more denials.
Only this.
I push her other bra strap down then slide my hands around to her back, unhooking and letting the lace fall to the floor.
My breath catches.
“Extraordinary,” I say, mesmerized, repeating my word from earlier.
She is indeed stunning.
The breasts I’ve openly ogled in her sports bra are on display and even though I’m not a boob man, or an ass man, or a leg man—eyes and lips are my weakness—Ruby’s tits are everything.
As in, everything I could want.
“You,” I breathe out, since I’m knocked senseless by her. But not so senseless that I freeze.
Hell no.
I need to touch her everywhere. “Need my hands all over you,” I growl.
“I was hoping you’d say that.” Her breath hitches as she adds in a whisper, “I have a feeling you’re good with your hands.”
“Count on it, sweetheart,” I say with a devilish grin. I cup her breasts, sliding my thumbs over the nipples, brushing them until they’re diamond points.
She gasps, arching into my palms. “Feel free to do that all night.”
“There’s so much I want to do to you, Ruby.” It feels like the truest thing I’ve said in ages. “Starting with getting the rest of these damn clothes off of you.”
I tug at her overalls, guiding them down over her hips. “Let’s get you naked, woman.”
We do the undressing dance, quickly shedding the rest of our paint-streaked clothes, leaving a pile of shorts, shirts, and overalls on the floor.
We’re down to my blue boxer briefs and her pink panties, and my eyes feast on her—all curves and softness and skin I want to lick everywhere.
I loop an arm around her waist, bring her to the bed, and set her on her back. Her knees are up, and this—this pose—is pure art.
My Ruby, all flushed and sexy as I peel off her pink panties.
My pulse surges as I take her in. Glistening, pink, wet.
She’s both nervous and excited, judging from her eyes.
&
nbsp; She twirls her finger in my direction. “Off with your pants, Hendrix.”
Laughing, I shed them, loving that she’s still playful with me even in the heat of the moment.
But once I strip, the look in her brown eyes is no longer playful. It’s seductive, sensual, and rich with heat as she stares shamelessly at my cock, thick and hard for her.
I give her what she seems to want. I grip my cock, slide my fist down it, my breath shuddering as I stroke myself once, twice, nice and hard, all while she gazes with heat in those soulful brown eyes.
“Oh, God,” she groans, letting a hand drift down between her breasts.
In a second, I am on her. I cover her body with mine, my lips crashing down on hers, our hands flying everywhere.
I travel over her arms, her waist, her breasts, all while our lips hungrily explore. My tongue skates over hers, and we can’t seem to get enough of each other.
Her hands are greedy, mapping me, traversing my arms, journeying down my chest, and soon we are a blur of tangled limbs, flushed skin, and eager fingers.
I get reacquainted with her breasts, kneading, squeezing . . . making her moan into my mouth and arch into my palms.
I shift her so we’re side to side, kissing like we can’t stop. I don’t want to stop. I want to consume as many of her kisses as I can, imprint them in my mind, store them up so I can recall them whenever I need to remember the most sensual, sexy kisses ever.
They could only be the ones with Ruby melting against me, her breath coming fast as I explore her.
When I slide a hand over her belly, slowly, deliciously making my way down her body, I shudder too.
Yes, we are inevitable, even if we’re only a moment.
But it’s a moment I desperately need.
“Jesse,” she breathes out, her voice hitching. “Please touch me.”
“Don’t you worry, sweetheart. That is definitely the plan,” I say, and when my fingers glide between her legs, I don’t know which of us groans louder.
She’s so soft and slick and needy.
The second I trace her wetness, she’s gasping, saying my name, arching into me.
“I want to make you feel so fucking good,” I murmur as I trace her slippery heat.
Good With His Hands Page 10
