TESSA EVER AFTER by Brighton Walsh
Blog Tour – PG-13 Excerpt
tessa
I threw the game. Despite my daughter wanting me to win—for girls everywhere, she said—I couldn’t. I feigned exhaustion, letting my body slump to the ground. Because my blood was boiling, my body on fire as I pressed against Jason’s body during a stupid game of Twister, and I couldn’t take it anymore. If Haley hadn’t been in the room, I would’ve pulled Jason down on top of me and let him strip me down right there on that stupid plastic mat. In reality, I had a four-year-old to attend to instead of doing everything I wanted to.
In the thirty minutes since putting Haley to bed, my urgency has faded, leaving behind only a subtle hum under my skin, but it’s there. This vibration of need when Jason is around that I never bothered to notice before. Or that I willingly ignored, which is probably more the case.
Despite that, despite wanting him, I’m in the bathroom under the guise of freshening up, even though I showered just a couple hours ago. I’m stalling, and I don’t know why. Haley’s asleep, Jason’s in the living room, presumably waiting for me, and I’m hiding in the bathroom.
Several minutes go by before a soft knock sounds at the door, sending me jumping nearly a foot in the air.
“Yeah . . .” I try to say, except my voice comes out all scratchy and breathless, so I clear my throat and try again. “Yeah?”
“Do you want me to just go home, Tess?”
“What?” I whip the door open, eyes wide and frantic, because that is absolutely not what I want. Not even a little bit. Leaning his shoulder against the doorjamb, Jason’s eyes snap to mine as soon as the layer of wood isn’t separating us anymore, and in that split second when our eyes meet, the heat between us cracks and sizzles just like it did while we were playing the game. Just like it’s been doing anytime we’re within twenty feet of each other. Shaking my head, I say, “No. I don’t want you to go home.”
His eyebrows lift up on his forehead, his expression one that clearly says he thinks I’m full of it.
“You sure? Because you’ve been hiding in here for ten minutes.”
I open my mouth to argue with him about the hiding bit, but there’s no use. Instead, I simply nod and swallow, not sure I can find the words to tell him exactly what’s going on with me.
Mostly because I don’t even know myself.
It’s not like I’m a virgin, and even though it has been a while, I’ve never gotten like this with any of my previous partners. Never had this overwhelming nervousness, and I don’t know where it’s coming from. No idea why there’s this swarm of bees buzzing around in my stomach. Why I’m all breathless with anticipation and anxiety.
But then Jason steps forward, right into my space, one hand coming up and cupping the back of my neck while the other goes to my hip, his thumb slipping under the material of my shirt to graze the skin above my waistband, and I know exactly why there’s a tornado in my belly.
“Last chance,” he murmurs, his breath washing over my lips, and I don’t think I could tell him to stop even if I wanted to.
But I don’t. I don’t want to, so I shake my head, and finally—finally—he closes the distance between us and puts his lips to mine. The kiss is tentative at first, a question, and even though he gave me an out just a moment ago, I love that he’s not pushing it. When I don’t pull away, don’t do anything but grip the front of his shirt in my fists and pull him closer to me, he takes that as an answer and swipes his tongue across my lips. On a moan, I open to him, desperate to taste him again in a way I didn’t allow myself to think about before now.
Jason’s grip on me tightens, his thumb rubbing in circles against the pulse point at my neck, and I know he can feel my heart flying. It’s nearly pounding right out of my rib cage. His other hand curls around my hip, pulling me closer to him, flush with him, and I can’t stop from gasping into his mouth. He’s against me, all of him, strong and solid and hard, and I didn’t realize how much I wanted this until this very moment.
He’s already good at reading my cues, because no more have I thought it than we’re walking, fumbling down the hallway and into my bedroom. The door isn’t even closed before I start tugging up his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against mine. With a grunt and a curse, he reaches back and yanks his shirt over his head before his lips are back on mine, his tongue sliding against my own, and I can hardly breathe I want this so badly.
In the dozen-plus years of his being in my life, I’ve seen him without a shirt on too many times to count, but I’ve never felt his bare skin. Not like this. He’s sinewy and muscular, the body of a runner, all tall and lanky, the muscles in his abdomen defined but not obscene, his biceps cut but not bulky. I run my hands over every part of him I can reach, sliding from his chest to his stomach, following the trail of hair down then hooking into the waistband of his jeans, and I want those off, too.
“Jesus, Tess,” he groans into my mouth, and the roughness of it washes over me like a warm rain, comforting me in a way I didn’t realize I needed. He wants this. Me. Desperately. It’s reassuring to know I’m not in this on my own.
His lips brush across my cheek, his teeth nipping at my chin, his tongue licking a line up the column of my neck, and I think I might die right here. I might actually die, because my heart feels like the pounding hooves of a thousand horses, and I can’t seem to get my clothes off fast enough.
