Page 25 of He Is Jensen: Part Two

Layla

My bloodwork is almost normal, as in barely a trace of anything pointing to cancer. It’s a miracle, but I don’t celebrate. Katie and Jensen seem to understand I need to set myself aside, including the threat Dorian represents, and focus on the big picture.

Six hours later, I punch a computer button to end a session with Katie and turn away from the lab table to run smack into Jensen.

His hands settle quickly to my arms, steadying me. Heat curls in my stomach, and I have the most exasperating desire to push to my toes and run my fingers through his spiky blond hair.

“You’re hovering again,” I reprimand.

“I was bringing your dose of ICE,” he says and then grins. “But yeah, hovering too.”

“My mental shield is up,” I say. “I can feel it. I’m okay. I swear. You don’t have to stand over me and wait for Dorian to attack.”

“I’d rather be safe than sorry. I’m staying close by your side. So just deal with it.” His hands slide away from my arms, leaving me cold and eager to have him touch me again. He holds out the vial of ICE. “I don’t want you going into withdrawal.”

Reluctantly, I reach for it, but close my hand around his instead, as I suddenly remember something I learned while in his head. “This isn’t about me surviving this addiction,” I say, needing him to know that for some reason. “I know you’re worried about that, maybe even worried that I will have second thoughts about destroying ICE. But I wouldn’t have told you about Dorian if that were the case. I know you might think I’ll make decisions simply to keep myself alive, or maybe others around you will, but I won’t. This is bigger than me.”

He reaches up and brushes my hair from my eyes, gently, protectively. “Then I guess I’ll have to keep you alive.”

I want to melt into him at that moment, want to believe he can protect me, save me. But he can’t. Why pretend otherwise? I slip the vial of ICE from his hand and turn away from him. Ashamed by such an addiction, I don’t want him to see me take it.

I down the ICE and set the vial on the lab table, the freezing sensation sending my hand to my throat. Suddenly, Jensen’s hands are on my shoulders, and he’s turning me toward him. Before I know his intention, his fingers lace through my hair, and he’s kissing me, his mouth hot, demanding. His body—strong, warm—presses close to me.

With only a moment of hesitation, I lean into him, wrap my arms around his back, moan as his tongue slides along mine, caresses and teases hungrily. He tastes like apple pie, and if I hadn’t been so hot, I might have laughed at the fact that he’s been eating apple pie.

But I’m hot, and for the first time since meeting Jensen, maybe for the first time ever, I kiss him—kiss a man—with complete, utter abandon. Kiss him like there might not be a tomorrow, like a woman who knows what she wants, and what I want is him.

Long seconds later, Jensen tears his mouth from mine, staring down at me with heavy-lidded bedroom eyes that make me want to kiss him all over again. “I thought you had reasons not to touch me,” I challenge, hardly recognizing the gravelly, desire-laden words as my own.

“I’ve never done real well at doing what I’m supposed to do,” he says, his thumb caressing my cheek, the sensation somehow making my breasts heavy, my nipples tight and achy. I’ve never felt so ready to lose myself in a man. But then, I’ve never been in a position where I have nothing to lose but myself. It’s liberating in ways I’m ready to embrace.

I draw in a breath and will away the flutters in my stomach, nerves that come from years of suppressing my desires. “I’ve always done exactly what’s expected of me,” I confess. “I don’t want to this time. I don’t want you to either.”

He lowers his head, his breath warm as it caresses my skin. The promise of his kiss brings me to my toes when suddenly he draws back. “Once we do this,” he warns, a deep, whiskey-rich quality to his voice, “we can’t undo it.”

He said something similar at my house, when he was about to tell me about the GTECHs. I didn’t shy away then, and I’m not going to now. And apparently neither is he, because despite his warning, he doesn’t move away, doesn’t put distance between us, and I can feel the thick ridge of his erection. Courage forms with those realizations. I flatten my hand on his chest, splay my fingers, absorb the feel of muscle flexing beneath my palm. I want to touch him, to feel him close, to forget everything else for just a little while.

“I don’t want to die never having known you, Jensen.”

Torment slices through his expression. “Layla—”

I press my fingertips to his lips. “Don’t,” I say, easing my fingers away, letting them slide over his jaw. “Every day of our lives could be the last for every one of us. I’m simply living with that in mind. I regret not doing so my entire life.” I’ve regretted a lot since finding out I have cancer, and regret is something I can do without. “I want you, Jensen.”

He stares down at me, and I’ve never been looked at quite like that, with so much simmering heat. He really does look like he wants to gobble me up as he once suggested, and thankfully, he apparently decides he will. He kisses me, more than kisses me. It’s a claiming, a taking. A possessing. His lips press to mine, first soft then firm, his tongue pressing past my teeth, warm with demand, hungry…devouring me. And I want to be devoured, want to devour him right back. Want to do every wanton, sensual deed I’ve ever dared to consider, ever dared to wonder about, and always allowed inhibitions to destroy.

I go to my toes, reaching for him, silently begging for more as I mold my body to his. Tugging his T-shirt free of his pants, I press my hands beneath. Warm skin greets me, and I moan into his mouth. I crave more of that skin next to me.

I shove the shirt upward. “Take it off,” I pant into his mouth.

Instead, I find myself lifted onto the lab table, my legs spread wide, Jensen between them. And still, he kisses me, softly, deeply, then wildly, trailing his lips over my jaw, near my ear, down my neck. He shoves aside my lab coat, strong hands skimming my rib cage and then caressing the curves of my breasts.

Feeling bold in my need, my hands are touching him anywhere I can, everywhere I can reach. When I finally manage to press my palm over the front of his crotch and trace the ridge of his erection, he moans and pulls back.

“Are you sure about this?” he asks, his voice husky with desire. And that desire only serves to make me hotter.

I caress the hard length of him and find myself smiling. “Are you sure about this?”

He half-growls, half-moans and kisses me again, long strokes of his tongue promising this is going to be the best sex of my life, and I’m ready.