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“Yeah, I can see that.” I laugh, but he shuts me right the hell up.
His mouth slams against mine, and his tongue invades, lapping against my own. My entire body hums, pulsing with renewed desire.
We’re never going to make it out of here.
______
Hours later, we’re on the floor of my dorm room, my knees digging into the bubbled texture of my rug uncomfortably, but the drag of Jude inside me, his hands pulling me into him, erases the pain.
I move my hands over his muscled body, pressing my fingers into the raging sky etched across his chest, and his gaze pulls me deeper, pulls me closer, pulls every nerve ending to the center of my body and winds them so tight I want to scream.
When I come, I do.
His hand reaches up and covers my mouth, and I bite into his fingers as I convulse around him. I ride the wave, riding him, enticing him closer to the edge, squeezing around him to the point of pain. He grunts and groans as he pushes up into me, coming with his fingers biting into my hips, his teeth marking the skin on my wrist. His shaft jerks inside me as he comes, warm spurts of cum coating my insides, and the quick, hard press of his thumb against my clit throws me over the edge for a second time.
And I don’t stop coming. I keep clenching around him, milking us both until we’re completely dry.
It’s a long while later when we’re both able to come up for air. Still lying on the floor. Still naked. Still sticky with our releases, but bone-deep, soul-deep sated.
“Holy fuck, Little D. I don’t think I can come again. If I do, I’m bound to shoot nothing but blanks, and that sounds fucking painful.”
I crack up, and as my body tenses with the force of my laughter, I feel every muscle, from head to toe, pulling. “Okay, okay,” I relent. “Maybe we should take a break. We’ve certainly earned it.”
The snort of laughter builds in his chest before bursting out of his mouth. And there is no better feeling in the world, I decide, than earning Jude’s unbridled laughter. The way it has to be worked for—his trust earned, his friendship gained, and his comfortability secured through time. He laughs the loudest with the people he cares most for. I’ve seen it firsthand with his family and his friends. Gratitude blooms inside me with the knowledge, not taking for granted for a moment that I fall in there, too, somewhere perfectly in between.
A firm finger traces the lines of my hip, trailing from my ribcage to my thigh. “Elijah mentioned you were thinking about getting some ink done here.”
“You keeping tabs on me?” I smile.
“Maybe.” His smirk slips into a shy smile of his own right before my eyes. “I’ve never pictured you with tattoos,” he says, “but now, I can’t imagine you not getting it.”
“Me neither.” My smile stretches wider.
He shifts up onto his elbow, his head held in the palm of his hand. “Elijah showed me the artwork, and it’s beautiful. Is there any significance behind the piece, or is it just something you wanted to get inked?”
“It started out as just something I liked, but it ended up being a bit of both.” I lift up, too, mirroring his position on my textured rug. It’s not comfortable, exactly, but the moment between us is.
His fingers skim up and down my side, travelling the length of where the tattoo will go. A floral piece, in black and gray and moody colors, extending from the bottom of my ribcage to the upper side of my thigh.
He studies my skin like the artwork is already there. “Will you tell me what it means to you?”
My smile grows softer, fonder. “Yeah, of course I will. Some of the blooms represent life, while the others represent death and rebirth. The vine that runs through them is sort of like a lifeline—mylifeline—existing through it all. Representing my own past, present, and future. I’m in love with it. The mockup Elijah made is… breathtakingly beautiful.”
“It’s gorgeous, Little D,” he agrees. “Almost as gorgeous as you.”
Warmth spills through my limbs, pouring straight from my heart.
He continues tracing the lines on my naked body, until I return the favor and do the same, asking about nearly every single one of his tattoos. The art covering his arms—things he simply liked. The Gods and Goddesses painted on one leg—an intentional interpretation of humanity and its values. The wolfand inked scenes of nature on his other leg—a picture of the peace he strives to find every day.
The violent, furious storm on his chest, angels and demons alike—a depiction of the internal wars he waged after Brenna’s passing.
The words inked on his fingers, a memory.
The words scrawled beneath his chin, a reminder.
We talk late into the night, about everything and nothing all at once, our words shifting into whispers and quiet yawns, growing fewer and farther between, before we melt into sleep, and each other, completely.
Chapter Twenty-Eight