As we lie there, settled after our trips to the bathroom, my fingers lazily trace the lines of Jude’s abs. I watch the steady rise and fall of his chest, memorizing the way he breathes. Every lingering kiss we share leaves me giggling and breathless. I can’t help myself—I love this. I love the way I feel, and nothing can take that from me.
This night is mine, this moment is written on my soul. And I don’t care if everything else goes to hell tomorrow morning. I’ll just be grateful I had this.
Wow. I think I might be a romantic.
I glance at Jude—and somehow, he’s even more than that.
His lips are swollen—I did that—and he seems to get lost every few seconds, smiling to himself. And then there’s the way he looks at me—vulnerable, hesitant, like there’s something he needs to say but isn’
