Vertical Lines (The Vert Series Book 1) (20 page)

Goddammit.

Those were the thoughts running though my head when she woke up—the same thoughts that had me treating her a little gruffly. When I turned and saw her sitting up in bed, eyes on me, I wanted to strip down and climb back in with her, to feel her wrap her sleep-warm arms and legs around me and let me take her back to the place we went last night.

But she has so much control already. We haven’t had sex—though what we had last night was more intense than anything I remember feeling before. If I touch her—if she gives me her virginity, I feel like there is no going back, no saving myself from the inevitable fall that will forever alter me until the only person I need in this world is Jordana Richards.

I didn’t climb into bed with her—but I did pull back the covers and stare at her, watch her struggle with embarrassment and desire and the awkward morning-after questions I was sure were running through her mind. When she said she had to go, I let her, because my head wasn’t quite ready to deal with everything. Still, I walked her to her car, and before she could get in I stopped her with a hand on her waist. Pushing her against the driver’s side door, I used her mouth in a way I wanted to use the rest of her—fully, completely, thoroughly—until we were both breathing hard, her on her toes, me pinning her to the car with my hips.

I stepped back, opening her door and letting her by, watching while she clicked her seatbelt into place and drove away. Now, it’s been hours since she left, and my head is no clearer than it was before she drove away. My heart—like her face on my canvas—has come alive.

Washing my palette knife and my brushes, scrubbing my hands, I deliberately don’t look at the painting. Instead, I dig my phone out of my pocket and hit a few buttons.

Hunter answers on the first ring. “Calling to bail on work again?”

“Nah, I’ll be there tomorrow. Drink?”

His pause is slight. “Yeah, I have to do something first. Hamilton’s in an hour?”

“Sounds good. Late.”

I hang up and stare at my phone for a second, finger hovering over my messages. I told Jordan I would call… I set the phone down and grab a beer from the kitchen before heading to the shower. Not yet. Soon, but not yet.

Chapter 31

Jordan

“Tell me about the places you’ve been.”

I shift the plastic beer cup in my hand and look up at Brooks. We are sitting on the back deck of Malcolm’s house. The small cove of trees dividing his structure from the others on this stretch of beach make it feel as if we’re in our own world. There are some people inside playing video games, and a few more sitting on the other side of the deck—which is just as large a space as the inside of the house—smoking and talking.

Brooks texted me yesterday—said he was busy, but the goodbye party for Mal was still happening. He wanted me to come. My response was simple.

Okay.

I had dinner with my parents first, but it was done within record time. I owe this to the fact that Mason never showed up. My mother made excuses the entire night, even receiving what I still think was a pretend text from him, which explained he had a study group that was running late for a project assigned in his math class and he couldn’t get away.

She did not appreciate it when I informed her I was in said math class, and was not aware of any such project. My father remained silent, but the raised eyebrows in my mother’s direction said it all. The check was ordered quickly after that, and I was told to continue working hard and being a good girl. They drove away, and I was able to get home and go to Mal’s with Nala instead of meeting her there.

We showed up an hour ago. When we walked in, Brooks was in the corner of the couch, a beer in his hand while he talked to Hunter about something. I don’t know what, because the minute I stepped through the door our eyes met and it seemed like time and energy and sound stopped, leaving me alone in that spot where our gazes latched and our memories collided.

Me, in front of him while I told him I wasn’t afraid.

Him, telling me to trust him, pulling his shirt off and reaching for mine.

Me, wrapping around him and allowing him to take me to his bed.

Him, drawing me.

Me, splayed on his bed with his scent surrounding me.

Him, on his knees between my thighs.

Me, arching my back and breaking into a million pieces as his mouth moved over me.

Him, showing me how to bring him pleasure.

Us, wrapped together all night.

Nala’s sharp shove from behind, and Hunter’s deep laugh, broke me out of my reverie. Scarlet was too tame a word for how hot my face felt, but Brooks only gave a half smile, the one that curves his lips slightly and transforms his face from darkly handsome to slightly approachable.

And then he stood, greeted Nala and told her to take his seat, handed her his beer in a gesture that spoke volumes of their friendship, and grabbed my hand. “Outside.”

I didn’t have time to tell him yes or no—please, like
no
even crossed my mind—before he was leading me through the small cluster of people and out onto the back deck, around the side where he promptly had me against the rough stucco of the house. His eyes made brief contact with mine, filled with the pressure of three days apart, before his lips descended. Thoughts left me after that, and though I wanted him with everything inside of me, the rough demand of his grip on my hips as he hauled me to my toes, the brutal pressure of his lips and tongue as they ravaged mine, had my body shaking.

“Brooks,” I whimpered on a gasp. I didn’t know what I wanted, but I knew what I needed; I could drown in Brooklyn Novak and never regret one sacrificed breath.

I might have whimpered again, or begged him, but somewhere along the line, his assault turned dreamy; his hands gentled, his mouth slowed and became soothing, drugging, and his tongue tantalized me, sipping at my lips before dipping inside to tangle with mine.

Minutes, hours. Who knows how long we were there, kissing, exploring, stoking the fire that hadn’t waned, but simmered in our hours apart, only to be brought to an all-consuming blaze the moment we touched.

When he finally pulled away, his large hands framed my face and swept through my hair, from the temples back, until they rested on my neck. And then his forehead came down on mine.

The contact was so gentle, so intimate, my whole body shuddered. He let me go before I could reciprocate or look up at him, leading me back around the side of the house to the noise and company of others.

Now we’re sitting in two of the many Adirondack chairs on the sizeable deck, both with a beer he got us, alternating between talking and enjoying the silence. He’s watching me, his big body sprawled in the chair across from mine, my feet resting on his lap where he pulled them after I sat down. He has one hand on his beer, the other skating designs over my bare legs.

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything,” he says. I laugh because it’s true. He’s so quiet, yet, the way he looks at me, at others, makes me certain that he files away everything for later use. “Start with your favorite place.”

“Mendoza. Argentina,” I add. He quirks his brow like,
yea, I’m not an idiot
. “I went there my senior year in high school for three weeks. I was in an exchange program, having finished most of my credits early on. I studied, but I also
lived
. For the first time, really.

“Mendoza is wine country—wineries, vineyards—built at the bottom of the Andes. But more than that, it’s a city where people still value breaking bread together, where cooking a meal isn’t about eating, but about spending time together, talking, sharing, experiencing. The asados… I’ve never seen anything like them. People from the entire block join together—everyone cooking, drinking, bringing food, talking. 

“I originally went to just get away, have a small space to drink and be free without worrying, but then I got there and everything changed. I was immersed in a culture where everyone lived at home until they married, where everyone went home for lunch and ate late dinner together, where achievements weren’t looked upon as highly as enjoyment and love, and for the first time I felt like I was doing something amazing.”

I sip my beer, almost used to the yeasty taste, and flick my eyes to his, blushing under his heavy gaze. “Sorry, that’s not what you meant. Paris—”

“Don’t,” he says, his voice low. He sits forward, his hands going to my knees. “Don’t do that. That’s exactly what I meant. When I ask you a question, I want you to tell me what you know and feel and love. If I want something else, I’ll tell you.”

I swallow, the saliva in my mouth evaporating.
Intense
. I’ve thought it several times since I started spending time with Brooks, but in moments like this, I’m not sure even that word does him justice. Emotions, feelings, responses… it all simmers just under the surface, a volcano waiting to erupt. For the life of me, I don’t know if I should be scared if I’m around when it does.

His hands skate higher on my legs. I take a nervous sip of my beer.

“Do you want to know anything else?”

He nods. “Come home with me.”

Chapter 32

Brooks

After she spent the night with me, I promised myself I wasn’t going to pursue Jordan. Three days.

I battled every urge I had to call her, text her, drive over to her dorm and fucking
see her
because denying myself the sight of her after the experience we shared was like throwing an addict in a room and telling them to wait it out: torture.

But I survived. I battled. I made it forty-eight before texting her, having convinced myself that I was finally okay to see her and remain level-headed. A full seventy-two hours before I actually saw her, and I was just beginning to feel like I could breathe again… until the second she stepped foot inside of Mal’s.

Our eyes locked; in hers I could see the memory of what we’d done. Every ounce of willpower I had used to stay away from her crumbled. This girl… she gets to me, takes my control and makes me want to worship her in every way possible. It’s a disaster waiting to happen, because I want her to the point of pain, and still, I understand that acting on that want is going to take something from both of us, something we may not be ready to lose.

When I got her away from the crowd, when I finally got my hands and mouth on her, everything had color again. She’s not just my muse—though fuck knows I’ve produced more in the last few weeks of knowing her than I had in the months before—she’s my heartbeat.

That thought slammed into me and had me grabbing her harder than I should have, bruising her lips as I tried to put the playing field on level ground—physical ground.
Sex
I understand.
Lust
I understand.
Mutual satisfaction
I understand. Feelings, emotions, need… they are all a gray area, because with them I understand that nothing is controllable. The minute she has a hold on my heart, I’ll do anything for her.

To show her—and me—I was still in control, I used her mouth the way I’ve dreamt of for three days straight, plundering, invading, ravishing, until she whimpered, so low, so desperate, I couldn’t ignore it.

She already has a piece of my heart—scarier than that thought is the one that tells me I would willingly give her the whole damn thing for just one more taste of her. We’re at my house, she is quietly looking at the pictures I added to the walls a couple of weeks ago, and I am holding the drinks I’ve made us while I stare at her.

Twenty minutes ago, I wanted to devour her, tear her proper little jeans and cardigan off and lap up every inch of her until she was screaming my name in her breathless whisper—the same one that had been haunting me since she left here two mornings ago. Now, those thoughts are still there, but something else is with them.

It’s not just the physical desire to be with her—it’s not just the need to paint, to feel, to take. It’s being with her. Watching her, listening to her… feeling with her. It’s all of that, the reason that seventy-two hours—shit, seventy-two days—won’t make a difference. She’s inside of me, and goddammit if I don’t want to keep her there.

“I didn’t get a chance to study these closely the other night. They’re not all yours.”

I walk over to her and hand her the vodka-soda I know she prefers to beer. “How do you know that?”

She takes the drink and sips, eyes skimming over the walls. Her fingers of one hand dance up and down the side of the tall glass, moving in time with her mind. “The newspaper print—with the man and the yellow on it?” I nod. “Unique. But it looks to be about texture and color. The face itself isn’t telling me anything—it’s the technique we’re focused on.”

“And I don’t have technique?”

She smiles. “You do. But when I look at your work I don’t see your brush strokes or your materials—I see what you felt at that exact moment.”

I think of the other night, when I drew her, photographed her, all because I needed to show her what I couldn’t say.

“Maybe you just see what you want to feel.”

Her head nods up and down. “Maybe. But then, that’s a gift too, being able to let people feel things.” The context of her words has me flashing back to the last time she was in my house, when she was on my bed and holding me in her hand, trusting me to be careful with her, to teach her.

“Jordan—” I start, but she interrupts.

“Why didn’t you call me?”

My mind struggles to transition and keep up with her. “I wasn’t ready.”

Her laugh is fast and nervous. “So simple.” She drinks deeply and I see her wince before setting her glass down on the table. I do the same, watching her the entire time. “God, if you could have seen the things running through my head the past few days. Abductions, hospitalizations, family emergencies. Disappointment.”

Her voice is riddled with nerves, her hands fidgeting, but she’s looking straight into my eyes. “Were you hospitalized for something, Brooklyn? Did you fall off a roof or shoot your foot with a nail gun?”

I look down at my feet and then back at her. I shake my head
no
. She hesitates. “Is Ash—is your family all right?”