The cab of Jake's truck shrinks to the size of a heartbeat the moment he slides behind the wheel.
Rain hammers the roof in relentless waves, turning the windows into rivers of distorted light.
The world outside ceases to exist—there's only the glow of the dashboard, the blast of the heater he switches on without looking, and the man beside me whose jaw is still tight with residual anger and want.
I'm shivering. Soaked through to the bone, my clothes plastered to my skin like a second layer I desperately want to shed.
The heater pushes warm air against my frozen limbs, but it's not enough. Nothing feels like enough right now except the man who just kissed me like he was trying to consume me whole.
Jake doesn't start the engine.
Instead, he turns to face me, rainwater still dripping from his jaw, his steel-gray eyes dark with intent that makes my stomach clench.
"Back seat," he commands.
I don't argue. Don't have the capacity for words when my body is already moving, climbing over the center console with zero grace and even less dignity.
Jake follows, his larger frame folding into the back seat with surprising agility, and then we're both there—cramped and damp and breathing hard in the confined space.
He reaches for me before I can think, hauling me into his lap so I'm straddling his thighs, my knees bracketing his hips on the worn leather seat.
The position puts us face to face, breath to breath, and I can see every shade of gray in his eyes, every line etched by years of fighting fires and fighting himself.
"You scared me," he says again, quieter now, his hands sliding up my sides over the soaked fabric of his borrowed jacket. "Don't do that again."
"I'm sorry." The apology comes easier this time, genuine and raw.
Then his mouth is on mine, and the conversation ends.
This kiss is different from the one outside—slower, deeper, more deliberate. His tongue slides against mine, and I melt into him, my fingers finding the wet fabric of his flannel and gripping hard.
We're both soaked. The clothes between us are cold and heavy, clinging to skin that's rapidly heating despite the chill.
I can feel him through layers of denim—hard and wanting—and I roll my hips instinctively, chasing friction that makes us both groan.
"Kelly." is hands tighten on my waist, fingers digging into my hips. "Slow down."
"Don't want to slow down." I rock against him again, and the sound he makes—low and broken—sends heat pooling between my thighs. "I've been thinking about this for days. I've been driving myself insane thinking about this."
"You think I haven't?" He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, his breath ragged. "You think I've been sleeping on that couch without imagining you in my bed? Without hearing you through the walls and losing my goddamn mind?"
The confession lands like a match on gasoline.
He heard me. That night when I touched myself thinking about them—about him—he knew. He stood outside that door.
"You heard," I whisper.
"Every sound." His thumb traces my bottom lip, swollen from his kisses. "Every little gasp. Do you know what that did to me? Knowing you were in my bed, making yourself come, and I couldn't touch you?"
I shudder. "Jake—"
"I'm touching you now." He kisses my jaw, my throat, the sensitive spot below my ear. "And I'm going to take my time."
His hands find the hem of my shirt—his shirt, technically, soaked through and clinging—and he peels it upward slowly, dragging the wet fabric over my skin.
The cold air hits my stomach, my ribs, my breasts still covered by a bra that's seen better days, and I lift my arms to help him pull the shirt over my head.
He drops it somewhere on the floor of the truck and just looks at me.
The dashboard light catches the water droplets still clinging to my skin, and I feel impossibly exposed.
"You're so goddamn beautiful, Kelly," he says, his hands sliding up my bare sides, thumbs brushing the underwire of my bra. "And I'm going to spend the rest of the night proving it to you."
He reaches around and unhooks my bra with a dexterity that speaks to experience.
The straps slide down my arms, and then I'm bare from the waist up, my nipples hardening in the warm air from the heater.
Then his mouth is on my breast, and I stop thinking entirely.
His tongue swirls around my nipple, teasing, tasting, drawing sounds from my throat I didn't know I could make.
I arch into him, my fingers threading through his wet hair, holding him in place as he lavishes attention on one breast, then the other.
The sensation is overwhelming.
"More," I gasp. "Please, Jake, I need more."
He pulls back with a wicked smile I've never seen on his face before. "Patience."
"I don't have patience. Take this off." I reach for his flannel, fumbling with buttons that refuse to cooperate with my shaking fingers. "I want to feel you."
He helps me, shrugging out of the wet flannel and the t-shirt beneath, revealing a chest I've been trying not to stare at since that first morning when I ran into him in the hallway.
Broad and solid, dusted with dark hair, scarred in places that tell stories I want to learn.
I flatten my palms against his skin, feeling his heartbeat thunder beneath my touch.
"You're warm," I murmur, pressing closer. "God, you're so warm."
"And you're still freezing." He reaches over the seat, grabbing something from the passenger side, and returns with a thick wool blanket. "Come here."
He wraps the blanket around my shoulders, cocooning us both in warmth, and something about the gesture undoes me.
This man who yelled at me in the rain, who was so angry he could barely speak, is now tucking a blanket around my shoulders.
I kiss him again, deeper this time, trying to communicate everything I can't say with words. My hands explore his chest, his shoulders, the strong column of his neck.
I want to touch all of him. I want to memorize every inch of skin he's giving me access to.
His fingers find the button of my jeans, and he pauses. "Yes?"
"Yes." The word comes out desperate. "God, yes."
He works my jeans down my hips—an awkward endeavor in the confined space, involving a lot of shifting and maneuvering and one near-elbow to his jaw—but eventually they're gone, kicked onto the floor with the rest of our soaked clothing.
I'm in nothing but underwear now, straddling him in the back seat of his truck while rain pounds against the windows and the heater fills the cab with warmth.
Jake runs his hands up my thighs, his callouses catching on my skin in ways that make me shiver.
His fingers trace the edge of my underwear, teasing but not quite touching where I need him most.
"Jake." His name is a plea. "Stop teasing."
"I told you." He kisses the corner of my mouth, the line of my jaw, the spot beneath my ear that makes me melt. "I'm taking my time."
His fingers slip beneath the fabric, finally finding the wet heat of me, and I gasp against his shoulder.
He strokes through my folds slowly, deliberately, learning what makes me gasp, what makes me moan, what makes my hips jerk against his hand.
"So wet," he murmurs against my throat. "You're drenched, Kelly. Is this all for me?"
"Yes." I can barely form words. "All for you. Just for you."
He slides one finger inside me, and my world narrows to the point of contact. I clench around him, desperate for more, rocking my hips to take him deeper.
He adds a second finger, stretching me, filling me, and his thumb finds my clit with devastating precision.
The pleasure builds rapidly. Too rapidly. I'm already close, wound tight from days of wanting, from the fight in the rain, from everything we've been denying ourselves.
"Jake, I'm going to—"
He stops, his fingers going still inside me.
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