Chapter 17: JADE - A Very Good Bad Idea

I used to think it was an unrealistic gimmick when movie characters revealed secret plots to their nemesis. Why would anyone do that?

Now I know.

When you don’t have the energy, or desire, to hide your thoughts . . . honesty just slips out—as naturally as breathing.

A few hours after our kitchen table conversation, I’m waist deep in the midst of new planning. Fresh scheming and falling back on the patterns I’d been on the verge of forgetting. With the singular goal of driving a ferociously unwanted guest from the house.

Only this time, I’m strategizing with Burke.

Because the unwanted intruder is a sea rat, an ocean pigeon, a French-fry thief.

Also known by non-locals as . . . a seagull.

“Did you see that?” I gasp from the first landing of the main staircase. “That little fucker tried to spit on us!”

The gray-and-white torpedo sails through the air, inches from the second-floor ceiling, then it curves around in a tight arc, aiming its razor-sharp beak straight at us. The wings flap rapidly, picking up speed, preparing to divebomb like an enemy pilot at Pearl fricking Harbor.

“Down, down—hit the deck!” Damon yells.

And we both drop to our stomachs.

We’re not sure how it got inside—the hole in the roof, a gap in one of the exterior walls, an open doorway—at this point, the possibilities are pretty endless. We’d been in the parlor, where I was reading Clara’s journals and Damon was on a stepladder with his head up the chimney, working on patching the leaky cracks.

That’s when we heard it. The distinctive thud and a flapping flutter of feathered wings. On guard, we wandered out to the foyer and spotted the beach bandit perched on the top railing—looking down on us like he owned the place, and we were the trespassers.

Initially, Burke wanted to open the doors and windows and let the beady-eyed sucker see himself out. But mid-November down the Jersey Shore is officially cold by any metric. I also drew the line at living in a house covered in bird crap, or risking having it rain down upon us in our sleep, while waiting for it to leave.

So . . . here we are.

Wearing socks on our hands, clutching homemade nets of sticks and bedsheets. With the single crochet project I’ve managed to create—a misshapen, rhombus-esque square of yellow yarn that’s supposed to be a blanket—at our feet, ready to be thrown. We locked Precious in the bathroom for his own protection. And judging by his barking, he’s pissed off about it.

Also, because this house is sorely lacking in helmets, we’re wearing hats as protective head gear. Clara’s Sunday best. Damon too. He looks so scorchingly, sexily confident in his own masculinity under the wide-brimmed, silk-ribbon-trimmed concoction—I’m going to lick him from neck to ankle and everywhere in between when this fiasco is over.

We get to our feet and Damon moves in front of me, shielding me with his body. “Be careful, it’s looping around.”

But the winged menace psyches us out—pulls a sharp ninety-degree turn—and comes at us from the left flank. Directly at me.

I snatch the yarn blanket-net from the floor, squeeze my eyes shut, and hold it open in front of my face. And the trash hawk flies right into it. Bulls-eye!

A storm of feathers swirls around us as I grip the yarn like a sack and hold it away from me. While screaming, “It’s flapping! It’s flapping and it’s hissing!”

“I’ve got you—do not drop it!” Damon yells, as he wraps his arms around my thighs and carries me straight as a board—and yes, still screaming—down the stairs and out the front door. He sets me on my feet and takes the bundle from my hands. He flings it open, and the chip-snatcher tears into the air, soaring out over the gate and into the sky.

I brace my hands on my hips, watching. “Look at us. We just saved the life of a feathered intruder and released it back into the wild.”

“That was officially my good deed for the year.”

And then, as we watch, the ungrateful beast curves on the breeze . . . turning around.

“Uh-oh,” I gasp.

And it flies like an arrow right back through the front door.

I laugh—bending at the waist and lying back on the hard grass. I laugh until my stomach hurts and tears leak from the corners of my eyes. Damon flops down next to me, tossing his forearm over his eyes and looking so handsome in the sunlight, I want to sketch him.

Then he laughs too, shaking his head. “Motherfucker.”

* * *

Eventually, we manage to recapture the air-demon, rerelease it unscathed, and block it from reentering the house. After the debacle, we end up in the music room. I flip through sheet music while sitting on the piano bench and handing Burke tools we found in a storage compartment in the wall. He’s bent under the lid. When I’d attempted to play the grand piano, let alone give Damon a lesson, I discovered it was so out of tune and filthy, the notes weren’t recognizable.

“Pass me the string hook,” he says.

I hand it over, my eyes drifting around the once stunning room. There’s more molding here than in any other room. Old-world crown molding that’s chipped, cracked, and has missing pieces; yards of wainscoting that’s gouged and bowed; and intricate plaster ceiling medallions with once-shining gold inlay that are now gray and grimy and coated with fuzzy dust. When I contemplate the hours of craftsmanship and skill spent creating these trims, how amazing they must’ve looked through Clara’s eyes in their prime, I’m saddened by the thought of that beauty being lost forever.

I imagine what this room will become when the demolition trucks arrive—how the hydraulic arm of the excavator will burst through the walls, and the bulldozer will crush and splinter the lovely millwork into a heap of matchstick tinder.

And even if it’s futile, I tell Damon, “I’m going to restore the moldings in this room.”

Because there’s honor in hard work, and joy in bringing something back to its resplendent glory, even temporarily . . . before it’s reduced to dust.

He lifts his head, baby-blue eyes unusually soft with curiosity. “Have you done that before?”

“I’ve read about it. Historical restoration is a hobby of mine . . . a secret hobby. This would be the first time I’ve tried it, but there’s no better opportunity. If it turns out to be my own personal Ecce Homo restoration, it’s all going to end up rubble anyway.”

“Go for it.” He gives me a crooked smirk. “It’ll give you something to do when you’re not moaning my name.”

I roll my eyes . . . but he’s not wrong.

He wipes his hands on a rag. “So, she’s all clean and lubricated. I’m going to need your help for the actual tuning. Pass me the tuning hammer and start striking the keys.”

I hand over the tool and turn on the bench, tucking my knees under the keyboard.

“How did you learn to do this?” I ask.

A slight smile teases the corner of his mouth. “Brother Donahue taught us to tune and repair the pianos in the church. Said it was a marketable skill—the only one some of us would ever manage to acquire.”

“He sounds like a nice man of God.”

Damon chuckles. “He wasn’t so bad. Some of the Brothers were tough, don’t get me wrong. But even the ones who were—we knew they had our best interests in mind, not just chasing the thrill of being assholes.” He crosses his arms and leans against the piano, his tone relaxed and unguarded. “And a lot of us needed tough—practical—good old-fashioned ass kickings. To prepare us for the real world. And I think that was the ultimate goal. To not let us get too used to being cared about—so we’d be capable of standing on our own feet, all alone.”

I like listening to his stories. Watching his mouth as he says the words, knowing the details and anecdotes that built him into the man he is now. I’ve become a little fascinated with Damon Burke.

Maybe more than a little.

Maybe, definitely, a lot.

* * *

Sunset seems to come early, and with it, a rainstorm. Nothing dramatic—it’s a steady, consistent kind of downpour that brings cooler temperatures—low enough that I see my breath when I take Precious out for the last time. After he’s curled into a ball of sleep on his cushion bed, and flames are burning in the fireplace—I’m on the sofa, under the quilt, reading Clara’s journal when Damon walks into the room fresh from a shower.

He’s in snug, black boxer briefs that leave nothing to my vivid imagination, with a towel around his shoulders, his dark hair damp and brushed back in wet waves at the sides, just kissing the nape of his neck.

“Damn, it’s getting cold.”

Damon shoves the mattress closer to the fire, then collapses on the couch next to me. And the scent of soap and sandalwood wraps all around me. It’s so alluring and addictive, my thighs tingle and my blood carbonates with fizzy, excited attraction. He’s just so here—his presence so strong and all-encompassing, magnetic and captivating. Every time he walks into the room, my attention is pulled to him, like gravity.

How did I ignore him all those weeks? How did I stay away in this big, cold, barren house? I almost can’t imagine it. And not for the first time, but in a different way than before, I’m stunned by how not unhappy I am.

“What are you smiling about?” Burke asks. “Clara writing dirty jokes in her journal?”

I glance down at the book in my lap. “No, she’s writing during the time after Willie left for basic training, when it was just her and Harvey again. And it’s sweet because even after nineteen years of marriage, they still really liked each other. Listen to this: “When I chose Harvey, it was for more than passion and greater than the exhilaration of being in love. Through the years, I have found those emotions are always there, but they rise and fall like the tide outside my window. I chose him because he was the man I wanted to experience life with—the sunny skies, the frightening storms, the rogue waves, and the calm seas. His was the hand I wanted holding mine through it all. And I chose well.”

By the time I finish, my eyes are misty. “Isn’t that beautiful, Damon?”

His eyes are dark and intense, drifting over my face. He traces my jaw with the tips of his fingers, then he leans over and kisses me—deep and slow.

“Beautiful,” he whispers against my lips.

Then Burke leans back and shifts gears. “Less beautiful but nearly as awesome, I’ve decided to renovate the bathroom in the main hallway.”

We’ve been using the bath connected to Gunther’s old room because it’s closer to the parlor, but there’s a guest bathroom farther down the hall with a sink, toilet, and stand-up shower.

“I’m going to haul one of the tubs down from the second floor and install it in there.”

“Why not just use one of the tubs already installed upstairs?”

“No way that floor can still hold the weight of a full tub. It might crash through the ceiling—and that won’t be any fun.”

I peer at him. “Is this because I mentioned that I like bubble baths?”

“I’m not that benevolent,” he chuckles. “I might be a little obsessed with seeing you all wet and shiny and covered in bubbles.” He hums hungrily, biting his bottom lip.

“Hold on—you’re going to knock down and rebuild walls, and rework plumbing—”

“Just some plumbing. The pipes are already there.”

“—so you can see me in a bubble bath?”

He nods, likes it’s a perfectly logical plan.

I laugh. “I’m not opposed to showering together.”

Seeing Damon slick and soapy—I wouldn’t mind that myself.

“Nope—not the same. I want you submerged in water—all this smooth, glossy skin. I want to watch you there, lick the droplets off you there, and thoroughly fuck you there. I want you to ride me and flood the room when you come.”

“Seems like you have it all planned out.”

“I get hard every time I think about it. I’m hard thinking about it right now.”

And he is—fully, mouthwateringly, impressively erect.

“And now I’m chilly and hard . . . so we need to do something about that.” He snatches the book from my hand. “Which means reading time is over, sweetheart.”

Damon lays the journal on the rocking chair. Then he scoops me up and tosses me down on the mattress, like a beast. He slides his body over me, on top of me—and we proceed to keep each other very, very warm.

* * *

A few hours later, in the middle of the night, I wake up. Not tense and twisted from a nightmare or heart-pounding with worry. Just awake. Maybe from the din of the rain still coming down outside. Damon’s embrace is a secure, heavy weight around me and his breaths come in steady exhales against my hair.

Carefully, I slip out from between his arms, grab his T-shirt from the back of the sofa, and put it on. Quietly, I put a thick log on the fire, then pad over to my bag in the corner and dig down to the sketch pad and pencil buried at the bottom. I settle on the end corner of the mattress. The room is bathed in a golden orange glow, and the firelight dances across Damon’s form. He’s sleeping on his side, the blanket tucked halfway up his bare chest, with his arm resting on top.

He’s a slumbering, sculpted work of art, and I can’t not draw him like this.

The shadows caress his bronze skin, highlighting the lines of corded tendons and crests of muscle along his biceps and across his pecs. I use my finger to soften the pencil line, giving depth to the sharpness of his jaw and full lips, smoothing at the curve of his cheekbone and bridge of his nose. A smile plays at my lips as I sketch his resting eyelids and long thick lashes and the careless lock of hair over his forehead.

When I glance up from the pad to Damon’s face, his eyes are open, watching me in the firelight. For a second, neither of us moves or speaks.

Then he asks, “Can I see your drawings?”

“Why do you want to?”

“I just do.” His voice goes softer. “I want to know how you see things, Jade. What’s in your head when you have that look on your face.”

I’ve never shown anyone my drawings. Piper knows they exist, and Clara . . . but not even them.

It’s not the judgment that’s terrifying. It’s the intimacy. The revealing. More baring than trust or truthfulness or being naked—it’s letting someone crack me open and see inside. Not just my mind, but my soul too.

Yet even still . . . I rise to my feet and drift toward him. Because he wants this. Because he asked. Because there’s freedom in letting go, giving in.

Because even if it’s just for the relief of not having a shred of myself left to hide, now that he’s asked . . . I want it too.

Damon sits up, peels back the blanket, and opens his arms. I put the sketchpad in his hand and mold myself against him, draping my arm across his torso and hiding my face in the curve of his throat, squeezing my eyes shut.

I hear him open the pad. I know the sketches by heart, know what he’s seeing with each turn of the page without having to look.

Precious on my lambskin rug, wide-mouthed and tongue dangling. Piper in a sunlit window, her smile pure and open. My father’s black eyes and deep frown, the backdrop a solid block of pencil-gray shadow. The parlor restored, a roaring fire, warm and waiting and perfect. Clara’s beautiful face, her motherly eyes and doting grin. The house we’re in right now, but from the outside—tall and shimmering—all that it was and all it could be. And finally, Damon—safe and strong—an impenetrable shield, even in his sleep.

I open my eyes to the view of Damon’s palm resting reverently on the closed cover.

“Wow,” he breathes, like a prayer.

He cups my jaw, tilting my eyes up to his. “You’re extraordinary.”

I smile, feeling an exquisite piercing pride, so light I could fly. Then Damon’s cradling my face in both hands, and kissing me—desperate and gentle at the same time. Like he can’t taste deep enough, can’t get close enough. A kiss meant to possess and worship and consume.

His palms skim down my rib cage to the hem of the T-shirt. He lifts it over my head and tosses it away. With a moan, I’m pressing against him, relishing the feel of my soft breasts against the hard firm warmth of his chest. We kiss, drowning in each other as I lie back and he moves on top of me. He sucks at my top lip, tracing it with the tip of his tongue.

My knees fall open and my hips gyrate up—searching for him. My pussy is so slick and slippery and aching for him to fill me. It’s like I’ve been waiting for this for a lifetime, like I’ve wanted him forever. And it’s all so good already—the feel of his hot, rigid cock weighted on my stomach—the press of his lips and slide of his tongue against mine—and the glorious rumble of his chest as he groans.

Damon lifts up on his knees, a rush of cool air ghosting across my breasts. He raises my leg, peppering kisses from my ankle to my knee. He presses his nose against my inner thigh, inhaling against my skin, and grunting how good I smell—how fucking beautiful I am.

Then he spreads my legs open and slides his tongue through my folds, slow and lapping. My heels dig into the mattress, my back arching with liquid, ricocheting pleasure. He angles his head, lashing back and forth against my opening, then thrusting his tongue deep. I bite my lip, then the back of my hand, because the ecstasy is so intense. The flat of Damon’s tongue goes to my clit, pressing and circling.

I chant, lost and mindless. “Yes, yes, yes . . .”

The sensation builds and crests . . . and shatters through me. I lift my pelvis against his mouth like an offering as I come, writhing and moaning with bliss.

My limbs give out, falling loose and jointless against the blanket. But he’s not even close to done with me. I watch Damon with heavy lids as he skims up, pressing kisses to my stomach, my breasts, before wrapping his lips around my peaked nipple and suckling hard.

His blue eyes burn into mine as he moves to the other breast and licks lazily at my flesh.

But I ache for him. For the press of his cock sliding inside and the sound of his grunts as ecstasy courses through him.

“Damon, please,” I beg, and that feels gorgeous too. Pleading for him, wanting and whimpering and needing. “Please, Damon, please.”

He doesn’t make me wait any more. My pleas hit him hard, tightening the grip of his fingers on my skin and making his muscles tense. He takes his cock in his hand and watches as he presses the head against my opening. He’s so big, my skin stretches thin when he notches inside. I moan with the beautiful feel of it, my heart racing and my breaths panting.

Then he’s pushing, gliding—my muscles widening for him, welcoming him. He tunnels in steadily, so deep I feel the imprint of him everywhere as my flesh makes room for all of him.

“So tight . . . so fucking incredible, baby.”

Damon’s eyes slide closed and his face twists with pleasure as his hips circle and he rides me in slow, savoring thrusts. I skim my hands up his chest, over his shoulders and down his arms, relishing the powerful strength of him. He lowers his torso and kisses me roughly as his hips move harder, faster—taking me in long, full, harsh strokes that I’ll feel for days. One hand slides under my head and the other ghosts down over my ribs, hooking behind my knee and lifting. He drives his cock deeper, sending the sounds of our moans and slaps of our skin echoing across the room.

The pleasure builds low in my stomach, swelling up my spine, then scoring out—clawing through me in contracting waves as I come so intensely, tears spring beneath my clenched eyelids.

Damon surges into me, hips rolling wild and relentless—then he buries himself fully and I can feel the jerk of his cock, the luscious pulse of heated fluid as he comes with the hoarse groan of my name on his lips.

He doesn’t withdraw right away. He stays inside me, lying on top of me, keeping his weight on his elbows, our mouths melding and sliding, until our panting breaths return to normal. Then he slips out of me, moving to the side—pulling me against him, and brushing his hands over my damp skin—cherishing and possessive.

During the night, he gets up to feed the fire and the rustle of movement wakes me. I don’t open my eyes, but I feel it when he returns; the clasp of his embrace and the press of his lips to the top of my head. My limbs are still loose and weightless—so deeply satisfied, I’m not sure if I know my own name.

But I know his.

Whispering it fills me with a tender exhilaration, and I sigh, “Damon.”

Then I drift away and fade back into sleep.