“Completely failing.”
Something in my chest loosens. He’s been thinking about me too. Struggling the same way I have. I’m not alone in this.
His hand is still on my waist, solid and sure, and I let myself lean into him for just a second—let myself feel the relief of mutual want before my brain kicks back in with all its careful calculations.
I reach into my bag and pull out the small box. Set it on the console table. The sound of cardboard against wood is absurdly loud in the quiet space—final, irrevocable.
His eyes drop to the box. Back to me.
Something dark and hungry flashes across his face, and I watch his throat work as he swallows. When he speaks, his voice is rougher than before. “You went shopping.”
“I did.”
“For this?”
“For us.” I meet his gaze directly, refusing to be embarrassed. “We have a couple of hours.”
For a beat, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just looks at me with an intensity that makes my pulse skip.
I may have miscalculated this. Maybe he’s already decided this is a mistake. Maybe the reality of premeditated sex feels different than the spontaneous heat of Sunday night.
“If you don’t want?—”
“I want.” He closes the distance between us in one stride. “God, Alicia, I want.”
Relief and desire flood through me in equal measure. Suddenly he’s there—close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him, smell the faint scent of soap.
I reach up, fingers curling into the front of his shirt. “Stop making me wait.”
His hands find my waist, but he doesn’t pull me closer. Doesn’t kiss me. Just looks at me with an intensity I feel everywhere.
“I absolutely want this. But you’re sure?”
“I know what I’m doing.” I tug him toward the den, toward the sectional sofa bathed in the gray light filtering through the high windows. No one can see in. We’re completely alone. “I want this. I need this.”
What I don’t say: I need to stop obsessing. I need to get this out of my system so I can focus on the hundred other things demanding my attention. And all I’ve been able to think about in every quiet moment is what he’d feel like inside me, how he’d stretch me.
His mouth crashes onto mine. His hands tighten on my waist, pulling me flush against him, and all those careful rationalizations of how this is to get it out of my system scatter.
This isn’t about putting something behind me. This is about want. Pure and simple.
I break the kiss long enough to pull his shirt over his head, my hands immediately finding the warm, solid planes of his chest. He’s beautiful—and I let myself look, because I planned this and I’m not going to be coy about it now. Lean muscle, bronze skin, a body built by discipline rather than vanity. A scar bisects his left ribs—thin, old, faded to silver—and I trace it without thinking, feeling the way his breath catches when my fingers drag lower. He’s warm everywhere. Warmer than I expected. I press my palm flat against his sternum and feel his heart hammering.
Good. I’m not alone in this.
“You’re overdressed,” he murmurs against my mouth, fingers already working the buttons of my blouse.
“Then do something about it.”
His laugh is low and sinful, and then my blouse is sliding off my shoulders, pooling at my feet. His hands span my waist, thumbs brushing the underside of my ribs, and I shiver despite the warmth of the room. I stand long enough to step out of my pants, and the way his eyes track down my body is worth every second of lost contact.
“Fuck—when I close my eyes, this is what I see,” he says, fingers tracing skin, lips close behind.
I reach for his belt, fingers steady despite the urgent need building. “I’m in charge today.”
Not because I want to dominate him—but because I don’t want to feel unmoored.
Something flares in his eyes—surprise, maybe, or approval—and he lets me push him back onto the sofa. I follow him down, straddling his lap, and the feel of him hard beneath me sends a jolt of pure want through my system.