Powerless (Chestnut Springs, #3)(50)

I cut him off by launching myself back at him. And he doesn’t miss a fucking beat.

He doesn’t kiss me like a friend. He kisses me back with equal fervor. He kisses me like he wants to consume me.

And he does.

His hands are hot brands on my body, touching and squeezing in places I’ll never forget. His lips are warm and firm. He’s gentle but he commands me. He tilts my head the way he wants it. He sets the pace for our languid kisses until he takes on a more demanding pace.

Until his tongue slides into my mouth and his teeth nip at my bottom lip.

And me? I turn to putty in his arms. I’ve been lost to him for years, but today in a quiet truck, in the middle of a snowstorm, I let myself get lost in him.

He takes and I give.

I take and he gives.

I roll my hips against his and he groans out, “Sloane.”

The hand in my hair tightens, and I feel the dull burn of him tugging against my scalp. His opposite hand moves lazily down my rib cage, coming to rest at my hip, long fingers splayed casually over the curve of my ass, his thumb rubbing against the outline of my thong.

Everything is slow. Achingly slow. So representative of us in so many ways. But there’s also an edge of desperation in us both.

A hard bite to every movement.

My nipples pebble. My heart pounds. My body is alight. My hips roll again.

This time the hard length of him presses back. I whimper, aroused and relieved all at once. I’ve spent years thinking Jasper Gervais couldn’t want me, but right now his body tells another story.

And so do his words.

“Sunny, you’re gonna make me lose my mind.”

“Good,” I murmur against his mouth. “We’ll be insane together. I’m so tired of doing it alone.”

I’m ready to tear his clothes off and impale myself on him, here and now. I’m crazed. I feel more drunk than I did last night.

I kiss him again, pouring all the frustration and longing into him. And he gives it back tenfold. He bowls me over and steals the air right from my lungs.

And then he pulls me away. With one hand tight in my hair, he angles my head up to him and peers down at me. His eyes flit around every corner of my face as he assesses me.

He reads me like a fucking book and then tells me something I’ve longed to hear.

“You’re not alone. I’m right there with you.”

I let out a breath so big that my body sags when it leaves me.

“But this isn’t the time or place. It’s not safe. And you are too fucking precious to take chances with.”

Fuck my safety. If I died riding Jasper Gervais in the driver’s seat of this truck, I might be fine with that. What a way to go. Out with a bang, so to speak.

“When is the time and place?” I breathe out instead.

He ghosts a kiss over my damp, puffy lips and guides my ear to his mouth. “When I say so,” he rasps.

A shiver wracks my entire body. When I pull back, his eyes are dark again and they land on my lips, then my breasts, before roaming back up to my face.

He cups my head softly. “I’ll be right back. I need to check the brake attachment so I can get us back down this hill. Buckle up, just in case.”

I nod and he lifts me, depositing me in the passenger seat effortlessly.

He’s out the door and into the blowing snow without another word.

And I sit here, dumbstruck, hoping he’s okay. And taking an inventory of all the things it did to my body when he said, “When I say so.”





19

Jasper


Jasper: Bad roads. Brake issues. Spending the night in a town called Blisswater Springs.

Harvey: Do you win a prize for using as few words as possible? You guys okay? Can you elaborate?

Jasper: I’ll call you from the hotel. We’re all good. Safe. You don’t need to worry.

Harvey: Come on. Give me something. One bed or two?

Jasper: Talk to you later.




The tips of my fingers are tingling as intensely as the rest of my body. Sloane is silent and introspective beside me. When I got back into the truck, she stared at me with comically wide eyes, pressing her lips together either to hide a smile or to keep from saying something.

We’re safely back on the highway. The wiring is firmly in place with the connector, and I’m finding it easier to breathe—unless I think too hard about Sloane writhing in my lap, her ass grinding against my cock.

I’m still stopping at the closest mechanic to have the brake connector checked because that shouldn’t have come loose at all. According to Google, that means we’re spending some time in a town called Blisswater Springs.

“Are we just not going to talk anymore?” Sloane blurts, cutting the silence. “Like I know you’re generally not a big talker. But can we not be awkward about the . . .” Her hand flaps around in front of her.

“About the kiss?”

“Yeah. It was a stressful moment. A moment of insanity. We can be cool about it.”

I’ve thought about kissing Sloane for a long time now, whether or not I’ve wanted to admit it to myself.

In fact, she almost took the last name Woodcock for the rest of her life because I’ve spent so long thinking rather than doing anything about it.

This might not be the perfect moment for me to figure out my shit where Sloane Winthrop is concerned, but it is a moment. And if I’ve figured out anything in this Shakespearean tragedy of a life, it’s that life is just moments all strung together like multicolor Christmas lights. You always end up liking some colors better than others.