“Just like you still love me.”
Thank God my hand is still on the wall, because suddenly I’m feeling a lot more unsteady. “You can’t love someone when your heart’s still broken,” I advise him.
“Is that what Easton was going on about?” he asks, taking a step forward, away from the counter he’s leaned against.
I can’t breathe properly. Damn it, I need another drink. I still feel too much. But, maybe there’s not enough beer in the world to make me stop feeling everything the sight of Jace Andrews puts me through. “He said I couldn’t get o
ver you. That he was always going to be competing with you, even if it’s just your ghost I’m holding on to.”
Jace reaches out for me, and I flinch, petrified by the weakness of my body paired with the strength of my desire. “And is he right, Izzy?” he whispers tenderly. “I think he is. You’re not over me. Just like I’ve never been over you.”
He has no right to be talking about such things. No right to be standing in my fucking kitchen, taking up the space and air and time I need to distance myself from him again.
But every curse and argument I’ve got against him disappears in an instant the moment his hand reaches up, his fingers entwining within mine before pulling my hand away from the wall and tugging me toward him.
I don’t remember my mouth seeking his out, but his lips are on mine, parted, consuming the last of my control. I melt into him, overcome by the fire in his fingertips as they dive under the hem of my halter top and the hardness he presses up against my belly as he steps backward, pushing me up against the counter.
His tongue steals my breath, no matter whether it’s dancing with my own, or licking and sucking a heated trail down my jaw and neck. A sigh escapes my lips, audible proof of how undeniably delicious his mouth feels on my skin.
My hands are under his plaid shirt, grazing my fingernails over the chiseled contours of his lower abdomen, the scalding heat of his flesh making the blood in my veins boil. Jace’s breath hitches, and he presses his hips forward, pinning me to the counter. A low, animalistic growl comes from his throat, his own hands tightening their grip on my ass as he grinds against me.
I was right. There isn’t enough alcohol in the world to dull my desire for Jace Andrews. He’s a compulsion, something my body craves deep within its core, and there’s no quenching that craving without having him inside me, losing himself at the same time I’m losing myself.
With no conscious thought, and only my blatant desire to have him guiding my actions, I’ve got my hands on his belt when his own hands cover mine and squeeze them gently, halting my movements.
“Enough,” he whispers. It’s gentle, but assertive.
“I want—”
“We both want the same thing, Izzy.” He sounds pained. “But be damned if I’ll do this while you’re drunk. I have higher standards for myself than that, and definitely more respect than that for you.”
“But, I’m not—” I whimper.
“Drunk?” He chuckles darkly. “Yeah, and I’m not hard as a fucking rock right now. C’mon, let’s get you into bed.” He pushes my hands away from his belt, snaking one arm around me to guide me towards the stairs. “We’ll talk in the morning, when you’re sober.”
“I don’t want to talk,” I mutter, still able to feel the tingling of my skin where his hands had been only moments before.
“Well, that makes two of us,” Jace says, still pointing toward the staircase. “But, there’s a ton of things that need to be said. Now, let’s get you to bed, before I change my mind.”
“So, there is a chance you’ll change—”
“There’s no chance,” he snaps, but there’s a hint of laughter in the way he says it.
“Then why say there is?” I whine dramatically, taking one stair at a time and concentrating on not falling flat on my face.
“Because it gives you something to think about.” He grins, stepping up onto the stairs behind me, his hands placed suggestively on my hips. He leans forward and nips playfully at my shoulder, making a strangled combination of a gasp and groan erupt from my throat. “Sweet dreams, Izzy.”
The sun is bright. Way too damn bright. My first thought is that I'd forgotten to close the curtains on my bedroom window before I went to sleep last night. But my next thought quickly erases that one from my mind, and my eyes snap open as I steal a glance around the room.
I'm in my bedroom, and thankfully I'm alone. I take a deep breath, relieved. I remember very clearly that Jace brought me home last night. I also remember how much I drank, and the way my tongue had meshed so enticingly with his as we stood the kitchen downstairs, albeit briefly. While I don't remember him winding up in my bed last night, I know all too well that doesn't reflect how badly I'd wanted him to. Sober or not, Jace Andrews still had the ability to strip me of my control with the slightest fleeting glance.
And I don't like it.
I groan as I slide out of my bed very ungracefully. Somehow, the coffee pot seems a million miles away right now, despite only being a short distance away in the kitchen downstairs. It's on the tip of my tongue to mumble out a few choice words about my decision to drink the way I did now that I'm dealing with a dull ache in my head and a serious feeling of dehydration. Christ, it's not like I didn't know any better. About the alcohol, and about Jace.
But that urge is quickly killed as I make my way with heavy steps down the stairs and around the corner into the kitchen. From there, I can see the sleeping form stretched out on my couch. I'd recognize those broad shoulders and Wrangler jeans anywhere, and it stops me in my tracks.
Jace.