I touch Jem’s face, tracing the contours of his defined cheekbones, rubbing my fingertips along his scruff. Is he holding his breath?
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“You’re looking at me in a way nobody has for a while.”
“And how’s that?”
His intense eyes meet mine. “Like I matter.”
“Jem…” I press my lips against his, briefly, gently, and then withdraw before he kisses me properly. Jem’s lips move across my uninjured cheek before he buries his face in my hair.
“Every time I touch you, I hate that fucker more because I want to kiss you so fucking much.” He looks up. “When your mouth is better, I plan to kiss you until you can’t breathe.”
He obviously misses my current struggle with breathing around him. “Suffocation doesn’t sound pleasant, Jem.”
He laughs. “No, I mean the effect I’ll have on you. I’m a fucking awesome kisser.”
“I remember.” He smirks and I purse my lips. “Actually, no. You were crap.”
Jem rests his head back on the chair. “Oh, really? I don’t believe you.”
“I’m sure you’ve admirable expertise in all things physical, Jem, but I only care about one thing.” He arches a questioning brow. “You can kiss me like you mean it, or not at all.”
Jem cups my chin in his long fingers. “I’ll mean it, Ruby Tuesday.”
It. Our plain word for something much more complex.
His brown eyes tell me he already does and I ache in frustration that he can’t show me now. Instead, I shift around, curl into Jem and rest my head on his shoulder. He runs his fingers along my arm and strokes as we listen to the music in the peace we’ve created.
I wait for him to be Jem Jones, to continue the path he started to something sexual but he doesn’t. This is Jem, intuitive about the hell I found myself in last night, and understanding how tender is the road to where he wants to go.