“Jethro…” My courage is about to fail me, again.
“Call me Jet.”
I lick my lips, nod, and go for honesty. “Jet, you don’t look so hot right now. I’m worried.”
There’s a huge, soft beat of silence.
“Come up with me,” he says.
His words hang between us like Christmas lights, suspended in darkness.
I don’t need to be asked again. I nod, kill the engine and step outside, into the cool night.
He follows me out and grabs my hand, and I let him tug me toward the building. We ride up the elevator to the fourth floor in silence.
He unlocks the door and draws me inside.
He lets go to close the door and switch on a floor lamp. It illuminates a somber living room with a black sofa and an armchair, a long coffee table and shelves full of books.
Someone living in this apartment likes books, and if it’s not Jethro, then it must be Joel.
Interesting.
He drops onto the couch, running his hands over his face, and I sink down beside him, ignoring the urge to explore the apartment I’ve imagined a million times. The scene where my two fantasy boyfriends come together to love each other—and me.
Worry is gnawing at me. “What do you need?” I pull his hands down, turn his face toward me. “What can I do for you?”
“Hold me.”
It’s the last thing I expect to hear from a guy like Jethro. I have a second to think that he never said anything like this in the story I’m writing—never once showed a more vulnerable side. He’s the wild card, the dark joker, the hyper-sexual part of the equation.
Then he leans back, opens his arms, and I burrow into them. A shiver goes through him when I slip my hands around him and rest my head on his shoulder.
“Like this?” I whisper, looking up.
In the low light of the lamp, his dark eyes glimmer like wet pools at night. “Yeah.”
I slide my hand up his chest, rest it on his left pec. “God. Your heart is racing as if you’ve run ten miles.”
“Feels like it, too,” he rumbles.
“Why?”
He hesitates, his hand drawing circles on my back. His thick lashes lower. “I can’t manage stress. It fucks me up. Here.” He lifts a hand to tap the side of his head, then lowers it to his chest, his fingers tangling with mine. “And here.”
“Why? I mean…” Damn, I love how he’s holding my hand pressed to his chest, over his heart. “Were you always this way? Must be hard.”
He’s gazing down at our tangled fingers. His heartbeat has started to slow down. His breathing has eased out. “Not always. Just the last few years.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask if something happened to cause this. Joel’s words echo in my mind—about Jethro having gone through a lot and deserving a happy life.
“I fucking love how you feel in my arms,” he whispers, and I hum in agreement. He feels amazing, too—his chest padded, his arms so strong around me, his scent making my mouth water.
“You like me?” I smile up at him.
One side of his mouth quirks. “Like? That word doesn’t come anywhere near how much I fucking want you.” And before I have a chance to digest this much, he goes on, “I know. You want Joel. Forget I said that. Fuck.”
“Can’t I like both of you?”