I hum a line from “Fishin’ Blues,” my favorite song offThe Real Thingalbum, which I listened to a lot right after I met Sam. I suppose the music was a way to try to feel him with me, to try to know something more about him, even though I never got around to asking what the sweatshirt meant to him.
Jude surprises me by joining in my hum. The sound is rich and honey-smooth, and unexpected, coming from him.
“I saw him on this tour,” he says, glancing at the sleeve where the cities are listed.
I put down my mixing bowl and cross the kitchen to see where he’s pointing. “That’s kind of wild, isn’t it?” I say. “Which stop?”
“Salvador.” He runs his index finger over the white print of the word.
I remember what I’d overheard him telling my brother-in-law at the barbecue. Half of Jude’s family is from Brazil.
“I spent summers there as a kid,” he explains. “At my grandmother’s house.”
“Well, it fits you,” I say. “You should keep it.” I’m unable to resist putting my hands on Jude’s shoulders. There’s that spark between us again. The one we’re trying to pretend we didn’t just ignite on the canal.
I drop my hands. We’re still standing very close. My eyes fall on the thin, pale scar running down Jude’s cheek. The one I’d noticed in Joshua Tree. The one almost but not quite hidden by his beard.
“That’s from the accident,” I say softly.
“Yes.”
I reach out and trace my fingers over Jude’s scar. He says he can’t remember the accident, and I’ve read in plenty of articles how common that is with near-death trauma. But I wish I could know what he went through.
He said in the canoe that he lost something after his accident. If I could only see it, could I help him get it back?
Is that what he was trying to ask me earlier, on the canal? For help?
Tucked under my pajamas, I feel the weight of the adder stone at my neck. What would happen if I looked through this stone at his scar? I know Jude doesn’t believe in that stuff, but maybe I do? Maybe I could believe for us both.
We’re inches apart, eyes locked on each other’s lips. I draw my hand slowly down the side of his cheek, and I think I feel him tremble just a little at my touch. I run my fingers through his soft beard with one hand. Then with both hands.
“Fenny,” he whispers, closing his eyes.
I answer by pressing my lips to his.
Jude kisses me back with heat and hunger, the kind that builds. The kind that needs to be sated. It’s such a turn-on that when his hands circle my waist and his knees part so my body can slip closer, I’m ready to tear his sweatshirt in half. My hands are in his short, soft hair. My nails run up and down his neck. His lips trail my throat with soft kisses.
“Your neck makes me crazy,” he murmurs.
I giggle, surprised. “My neck?”
“It’s the first thing I noticed about you. Your smooth, elegant skin. Goes all the way down to your feet. Your perfect feet.”
“My feet?” I whisper.
“Ever since the wedding, I’ve wanted my mouth on so many parts of you. God, Fenny. I can’t believe this is happening,” he gasps. “Is this okay with you?”
“I kissed you, remember?”
“I will never in my life forget it,” he says, breathless. His hands move down my body, to my hips, my thighs, my ass. His tongue slips softly to meet mine.
It almost feels as if we’ve kissed before, as if we’ve practiced getting to know exactly what the other likes, exactly how much pressure of his mouth against my neck makes me moan like I just did.
What else could explain why we’re so good at this?
This is notunlike the chemistry I had with Sam, in that it’s fiery fucking hot. But these kisses feel deeper, like there’s even more to discover if we keep going. My desire for Sam came onsudden and strong, like a crack of thunder, but with Jude, it’s like a well I want to drink from forever and never run out. I want to dive into his depths with my mouth and my hands and my soul.
“Come upstairs,” I tell him.
