Jake looks over his shoulder as I crawl onto the bed behind him. “Nice shirt.” He smirks.

“You should see what’s underneath it.” I match his grin.

“Are you texting Megan?”

He shakes his head and sets his phone on the nightstand. “Deedy. But I think she was in the middle of doing something. She seemed a little short and frustrated in her replies. Said she needed fifteen, maybe twenty minutes to finish up.”

I hug his back and kiss his shoulder. “What do you think she was doing?”

“Your dad.”

“What? Ew …” I push away and fall onto my back, covering my head with a pillow. “No. Yuck! That’s so wrong. Why would you say that?”

Laughter rumbles from his chest as he tugs the pillow away from me. I cover my eyes with the heels of my hands as he covers my body with his, nestling his narrow hips between my legs.

A satisfied grin slides up his face when I uncover my eyes. “You have nothing on under my shirt.” Restrained by his boxer briefs, his erection nudges me like an arrow pointing due north.

“Just …” My breath evaporates from my chest. He does that. Jake is a thief who takes breaths, slays words before they fall from my lips, and steals hearts.

Yeah, he’s stolen my heart.

“Just what, Ave?” He pushes my shirt—his shirt—up, eyeing my exposed breasts and wetting his lips. Raw masculinity delivers his words. Even on a whisper, his deep voice reverberates along my skin.

Commanding.

Arresting.

Seductive.

I shiver with anticipation seconds before everything burns with need. Jake doesn’t just reside in my head and my heart. He lives in every cell of my body.

“I’m not bad at sex.”

He grins. It’s arrogant for two seconds before his eyes shine with something that feels like adoration—maybe even love.

“No? Would you like to back that statement up with proof?”

My head eases side to side. “I want to give you a massage.”

“A massage?” His thick eyebrows lift up on his forehead a bit.

“Yes. I’m good at it. I want you to know I’m good at something.”

“Your fingers are injured.”

I hold up my hand, bending and flexing my fingers several times without pain, but a stiffness remains. They may never be the same, since I left town instead of visiting a physical therapist. “But I’m fine.”

After several slow blinks, his grin returns.

“Jake …” I close my eyes on a weak protest as he plants open-mouth kisses along my neck, rocking his pelvis an inch—an inch that draws a sharp breath from my chest. “I’m serious.”

He takes his time dragging his skillful mouth up my neck, along my jaw, halting at the corner of my mouth.

The Jake Effect feels like what I’ve always imagined resurrection to feel like—minus the throbbing need between my legs.

Dear Heavenly Father,