Powerless (Chestnut Springs, #3)(72)

Sloane


Willa: Looping Violet in on this chat to get the full picture. What’s the over-under on sweet little Sloane and moody hockey boy hooking up before they get back to Chestnut Springs?

Summer: Why are you so invested in this?

Willa: No one deserves the last name Woodcock. He’d have to look like Henry Cavill and fuck like Peter North for me to overlook that.

Violet: Ew. Have you seen Peter North? So tanned. So greasy.

Willa: That’s why I said he’d have to look like Henry Cavill.

Summer: Hold, please. Googling Peter North.

Violet: Lmao. Careful.

Summer: Well, he does seem . . . talented. I’m not mad at it.

Willa: I’m only mad at Sloane for not responding.

Violet: Based on the way her and Jasper have been staring at each other, I think she might be busy.

Sloane: Y’all are a bunch of nosy, dirty bitches.

Summer: Where’s the lie?

Willa: Just tell us! On a scale of one to Peter North, how big is Jasper’s D?




I step out of the shower for what feels like the hundredth time since Jasper and I started fucking. It would seem that making a mess of me is his new favorite pastime. And I’m definitely not complaining.

“Get on the bed,” I hear from behind me.

A shiver runs down my spine before I even turn to face him. The bite in his voice has my core twisting with anticipation, and when I turn to look at him, I get wet instantly.

He is mouthwatering in boxers and an open flannel shirt. I can see my tattoo peeking out over his ribs, and I’m hit with a blinding flash of jealousy, one that scratches painfully at the back of my throat as I wonder how many women have run their hands over that tattoo.

“Am I the only one?” I blurt, ignoring his order to get on the bed.

His head tilts, and he appears almost predatory now. “The only one what?” I can tell he’s not in the mood for this conversation. I can tell when he’s let his head wander somewhere it shouldn’t have—and this look is that.

Jasper is on edge, probably about the drive home, and I’m pushing him anyway.

“In your life. That you’re with.” I clutch the plain white towel tighter around me like it might keep me safe from this very unsafe conversation I started.

“Get on the bed,” he repeats. “Now.”

I want to demand he answer me, but I also want to pretend I never mentioned this at all. I walk toward the bed and sit down on the edge, probably looking as pouty as I’m suddenly feeling.

Maybe it’s because our stay here is already over after two short days. This morning we packed and he hooked the truck back up to an empty trailer.

Maybe it’s because I had to say goodbye to Violet and everyone else this morning before they got back to work. I miss seeing my cousin. She’s my closest and most constant female friend.

Or maybe it’s just the hot fucking mess of these last couple of weeks piling up and making me feel a little emotionally wrung out.

“Lie down. But turn. I want your head at the side of the bed.”

I do as he says. The thrill of the way he commands me edging away the doubt in my mind. He’s still Jasper. My Jasper. The boy with the sad eyes and the heart of gold who I’ve trusted for years.

Lying here waiting, I hear him walk over. Within seconds he’s in my line of vision, towering above me. Eyes serious, jaw clenched.

He bends down and kisses me, tugging my wet hair to angle my head. This kiss isn’t soft or searching—it’s claiming.

When he decides it’s done, he pulls away and growls in my ear, “You’re the only one, Sloane. Don’t ever doubt that.”

His tone hedges no debate but I blurt out, “I know there have been—”

He cuts me off with a dismissive shake of his head. “We’re both adults, Sloane. Let’s not pretend we haven’t lived our lives. We’ve both been with other people. But the real question is . . .”

His thumb strokes my jawline as he tugs the towel away, exposing my body to him while his eyes devour every inch.

“The real question is, do any of those other people matter when I only ever see you? When I only ever think about you? When I’ve done nothing but become more and more obsessed with you since I was told to stay away from you?”

I whimper. Or moan. Or make some sort of noise you might make when someone punches you in the gut.

“Do they, Sloane? Do they matter? Does any of that seem like it matters in the face of what you and I have happening right now? In the face of eighteen years of friendship? In the face of wanting each other for so long? Is a single other person even a factor? Even a blip on the radar?”

“No,” I whisper instantly. When he puts it like that, no.

No. No. No. No. No.

“None of it matters.”

“That’s right.” His fingers trail over my lips. “The answer is no. None of that shit matters. Because we’re me and you. We’re us. Unlikely and inevitable all at once. We’re forever.”

I nod, willing away the sudden sting in my eyes. Because Jasper isn’t an overly emotional man, and that might be the first time I’ve really heard him admit what this all means to him.

What I mean to him.

With a quick squeeze to my throat, he murmurs against my hair, “Now hang your head off the edge of this bed and open your mouth.”