Vertical Lines (The Vert Series Book 1) (19 page)

“You,” she breathes, hands reaching for me. “I want you, Brooklyn.”

I’m yours.

I take her lips in a rushed frenzy, because I’m afraid the next words on my tongue are going to be a promise, maybe a plea, and I’m not comfortable with either. Jordan, whatever she does to me, what she makes me feel, it’s an odd mix of desire and protectiveness. I want her like I want my next breath. When I’m with her, every cell in my body is attuned to what she wants, what she needs. I want to give her everything, and it pisses me off, because I don’t have it inside of me to do that.

I settle for giving her this—the passion, the desire, the goddamn fire that smolders whenever we’re together. My tongue is stroking her mouth, rhythmically pushing against hers in the same way my body wants to move inside of her. Her back is arched and her hands are in my hair, pulling, winding, anchoring her against me.

Needing to feel more of her, to give her more of me, I run my hands down her sides and cup her backside, lifting her easily until she winds her legs around my waist. My lips never leave hers as I kneel on the bed and brace on one hand so I can lay her in the center, situating myself next to her.

Her tongue is tangling with mine, and then her teeth graze my lip and pull, dragging a groan from me. Her teeth disappear when she pulls away, worried, but I don’t let her go far. I use my own teeth and nip at her tongue, her lips, her neck, until her breathing is shallow and she’s pulling at the skin of my back.

I bring my hands over the small curvature of her hip, smoothing it over the top of my shirt at her waist, up her ribcage, my thumb brushing at her nipple once, twice. She sucks in a breath, her eyes widening, and I get drunk on the realization of just how innocent Jordana Richards is.

“Trust me,” I say. “You can trust me, Jordan.” And then I nuzzle beneath the shirt, my lips and tongue finding the rosy peak of one breast while my thumb brushes the other. Her breathing stops—a sharp inhale—and then I use my teeth.

Her body arches, hands diving into my hair—pulling, tugging, steadying her convulsing body. I switch from one breast to the other, lavishing her sensitive nipples in attention before placing open-mouthed kisses from her sternum, down to her stomach, farther down until I reach her hip bones, over the light-pink lace panties until I get to her.

“Brooklyn.”

The way she says my name… Jesus, I could live off the sound of it right now—breathy, unsure, needy, and scared.

“Jordana,” I say against her, and she shivers. “I want you.”

“Yes,” she whispers, hips arching as my tongue darts out to taste her over her panties. “Please, oh please.”

I want to rip away the thin fabric and plunge inside of her. I want to feel her around me, want her to feel me as I bring her the pleasure only a man can bring to a woman. But I don’t. This isn’t about me—this moment, this feeling, this experience—is about her.

Fingers stroking, I slip one inside of the elastic of her panties, searching out her wet core. She jolts slightly, her body tensing and freezing, but then I move the material to the side and use my mouth, one lap, two, and she’s sighing, moaning, biting her lip and arching her hips into me to get more.

I pull away and she freezes, tensing up. “Relax,” I murmur.

Slipping her panties all the way down, I toss them aside and ride my hands up her legs, settling more securely between her knees before I put my mouth over her again. This time, I don’t go slow, I lash at her with my tongue, one hand holding her bucking hips, the other finding her where my mouth is, pushing her up and over until she’s shaking, moaning, thrashing beneath me.

“Scream,” I say when she goes to bury her face into the pillow. “I want to hear you come.”

Her orgasm slams into her, bolting her hips up, loosing a cry that has me working her harder with my mouth.

I ride her until every last drop of her energy is gone and she’s limp against me. Placing small kisses on her knees, her hips, her stomach, I climb up her body until I’m at her mouth, waiting for her to open her eyes.

“You’re beautiful, Jordana.” Those caramel orbs are clouded with passion, but I see them widen. “So beautiful. Mine,” I say. I don’t have anything to give her—can’t fathom giving anyone else any piece of me, but I want to give Jordan everything I have left. Even if it’s only for a while.

Pressing my lips to hers, I kiss her mouth like I kissed her moment ago, strong, steady, my tongue mating with hers until she’s moaning beneath me, her fingers making me jump when they push at the button of my jeans.

“Jordan.” Her name is a gasp. When I pull back, she leaves her hands where they are.

“Show me,” she says. Arching her back so she can reach me, she puts one hand behind my neck and leaves the other at my fly. “Show me, Brooklyn. Let me know you.”

My heart’s pounding in my ears, my body pulsing while I hover over her. “This isn’t about me,” I say, one last attempt to keep myself in check.

She shakes her head. “It’s about us. I want to show you how I feel, Brooks. I
need
to show you.” I can’t deny her, not when she looks at me like that: eyes wide and deep and honest; lips swollen and wet, chest heaving.

With a curse, I lean down and claim her lips, rolling to my side and bringing her with me, helping her release the buttons of my jeans before kicking out of them. “You don’t have to do this,” I say, but her hand is already around me and my words end on a hiss. She releases me immediately, heat staining her cheeks.

“Come here,” I say, grabbing her hand and curling it back around my hard length. I wrap my hand around hers, squeezing so she understands how tight I want it, how much I can take. And then we start to move, her instinctively following my lead, my pace, my rhythm. With my free hand, I grab the back of her neck, bringing her face to mine for a kiss, groaning into her mouth as her free hand slides over my bare skin.

My breathing is ragged, my body tingling in anticipation. She breaks our kiss, her lips going to my jaw, my neck, my chest. When her tongue scrapes over one of my nipples, I groan and thrust up into our grip, my hips pumping harder when her teeth sink in.

Moments later, it’s her name on my lips as my body comes hard and long, my arms banding around her and my face pressing into her hair. My heart is slamming against my ribs like I’ve just run a marathon. Jordan is curled against me, her face pressed into my throat. I feel her lips at my neck and I pull her tighter before I stand to go clean up.

Walking back to the bed, I see her sitting on the side, her legs dangling over the edge, my T-shirt riding high on her slim thighs. “I wasn’t sure… should I go?”

I hit the light switch on my way to the bed, scooping my arm around her waist until I’ve fallen with us both back onto the bed. “Stay.” I feel her nod, her hair brushing against my chin. Her arms snake around my waist and her head finds the spot on my chest, just above my heart. My body tenses, and then it melts into her, my angles finding her slight curves, my arms banding more securely around her.

Wrapped in Jordan, my thoughts are quiet, and my heart beats loud and strong.

This girl. My muse. My heart. Mine.

Chapter 29

Jordan

Nala is on her way out the door when I get home to our dorm. One look at me, and she steps back, opening it wide enough to motion me in.

“I take it you told him you weren’t scared.”

I smile, walking to my closet and opening the doors so I can change. “You could say that.”

I slip out of the wrinkled blouse and jeans, putting on a pair of silk lounge pants and white T-shirt. Nala is sitting on her bed, a loose hoodie over her swimsuit. “Are you going surfing?”

She shakes her head. “Paddleboarding. It can wait. I was worried about you,” she says, and I pause.

“I’m sorry. I should have called and told you I wasn’t coming home…”

She shakes her head. “Jordan, please, I’m not your keeper. Besides, that’s not why I was worried. Brooks texted me to let me know you’d be staying.”

I can’t help the small smile. “He did?”

“Yeah, he did.”

“Then why were you worried?”

“Because it was your first time.” She tilts her head, studying me when my cheeks heat and my hands clasp together. “However sweet, however gentle and perfect your partner is… it’s a big deal. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

I look at the beautiful girl across from me, her hair piled on top of her head trying to escape the rubber band she tied it with. Her legs are twisted underneath her, her hands barely visible in the oversized garment. And her eyes… they’re so patient while she studies me, her face understanding and open.

Inexplicably, tears gather in my eyes. That’s all it takes for her to push off her bed and move to mine. She folds her knees between us and wraps her arms around me, holding me while I cry for no reason.

“We didn’t have sex,” I say. “But what we did…”

She pulls back enough to look down at me. “Was he good to you, Jordan?”

I nod, tears spilling over and trekking silently down my cheeks. “Yes. I’ve never felt like that, Nala. So much… he was so gentle. Which I didn’t expect. I’ve never been afraid of him, but intimidated, you know? Brooklyn’s so quiet… I sometimes can’t tell what he’s thinking, but last night—he showed me what it meant to feel something. To feel special.”

I sigh and rest my head on her shoulder. “This morning he wasn’t in bed when I woke up. He was at his desk, working. I laid there and watched him for a while,” I admitted. Her body shakes a little and I know she’s laughing. “And when he finally noticed me, he stood and walked over, taking the covers off me and just looking at me. He wasn’t even touching me and I was a wreck.”

“Careful. I might be a wreck if you keep telling me this.”

I sit up enough that I can see her face. “I’ve never had a friend like you, Nala. Not someone who would do this—sit and listen, even when I know your first time wasn’t… wasn’t like this.” Her smile dims slightly, but she reaches out and grips my hand.

“Well you have me now, Red, though I don’t know how much more I can take before I break my celibate streak and go out and find me a nice ride.”

It’s a joke, I know it. But I can’t help but remember the story she told me. Or the way she and Malcolm tiptoe around one another, stealing glances when they think the other isn’t looking. “I’m here, too, Nala. Whenever you want to talk.”

She stares at me a second before nodding. “I know. But for now, get your suit on. We can still make a small paddleboard yoga session before class.”

My good mood plummets. “I don’t wanna.” I roll onto my back. A second later, my pillow slaps me in the face.

“Let’s go, lovergirl. Nothing like some healthy endorphins to follow a night of sexual deviance. Or, so they say. It’s been a while since I tested that statement.”

“I know someone who would be more than happy to help you with your research,” I say with a grin.

She scowls, throwing my swimsuit at me. “Just for that, you’re buying breakfast. Two minutes, Red. If I have to come back in for you, it is going to get nasty.”

I stay where I am until my phone dings a text.

Ninety seconds.

I laugh. And then I jump out of bed and throw on my suit.

Chapter 30

Brooks

Jordan’s face comes to life with my hands, one layer at a time.

I prime the canvas, starting with white, adding gray and some flesh tone, spraying until it drips. I dab at it with a sponge, letting the texture stay as it dries before switching to charcoal to draw her face. I use a ruler, creating imaginary lines to perfect the level of her eyes and nose—markers used to identify a body, a face, a person. Things that can be altered, but not altogether changed.

Above her frontal lobe, the one that holds her behaviors and memories and movements, I stencil on the word
FUSE
. I paint gesso over it when I’m done, fading the charcoal with white paint until it’s a faint line.

The gesso dries hard and somewhat textured, allowing for better hold with the rest of my color.

Then it is acrylic paint and pastels. I begin with her left temple, laying flower stencils over the canvas, caking the bright-reddish hue I mixed over them before removing it. On the right temple are the elements, chemical and natural, a harsh and cold mixture of blue and yellow contrasting with the warm reds.

I use my oil pencils to blend and shade the letters above her, adding color from each side until it all blends and fades from one color to the next—like her, never quite able to be identified as one thing.

Her face is untouched, natural, a perfect blend of the red-and-white acrylic to match her rosy skin tone. The rest of her is blooming with color, sound, elements. Like the different functions of the brain, Jordan shines with the life she’s lived, and the one she’s learning.

Her eyes stay the same, though: the color, the secrets, the never-ending quest to learn. I see her—the real Jordan who reads psychology books in order to relate to those around her, and asks to watch the chef prepare her meal so she can learn why it tastes good.

She sees me too, the man who touched her, tasted her, learned her last night before she did the same.

I spent four hours wrapped around her, awake while she was sleeping, listening to her breathe, feeling her against me. She slept soundly, barely moving. It was only the second time I have ever seen her so still. The first… the first was hours earlier, when I was roaming her skin with my mouth, and she was helpless to do anything but feel me.

I watched her for a long time after I got out of bed this morning, the way she curled into her pillow, her small form made even smaller by the way she wrapped around herself. Something moved inside of me—something different than the desire that had been coursing through me as I held her.

Then I turned to the photos I’d taken, the sketches I’d done, studying each one, and I knew nothing had ever touched me like this girl right here. She got under my skin, made me see what Malcolm and Nala and every other poor schmuck who fell in love saw clearly: it’s not that she’s different than anyone else, it’s that she makes
me
feel and see and act differently. With her, the anger is still there, the helplessness and the pain, but not the emptiness. However much I hurt, I don’t feel the aching hollowness inside of me, because Jordan’s there, filling me up with life and goodness… and love.