When she takes me in her mouth, I have to grip the sheets to keep from losing control completely. The way she moves, the little sounds she makes like she’s enjoying this as much as I am—
“Clare,” I warn, because I’m hanging on by a thread.
She doesn’t stop. If anything, she doubles down, and when I finally shatter, her name falls from my lips.
After, I pull her up to me, tucking us both under the blankets while we catch our breath. She’s curled against my side, her hair tickling my chest, and I can’t stop the laugh that bubbles up.
“What?” she asks, tilting her head to look at me.
“I did not plan that,” I admit. “This was supposed to be dinner, conversation, maybe a goodnight kiss if I was lucky.”
She’s laughing too, the sound warm against my skin. “Are you complaining?”
“Hell no. Just... sorry about dinner getting cold.”
“I’m not.” She presses a kiss to my chest, right over my heart. “But I might be hungry now.”
“Pasta?”
“Pasta sounds perfect, actually.”
I get up, pull on my boxers, and grab clothes for her—soft sweatpants that’ll be too big, one of my old hockey T-shirts that’ll hang off her shoulders just right.
“Will you stay tonight?” I ask, handing her the clothes, trying to keep the question casual even though the answer matters more than it should.
“I’d like that,” she says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Twenty minutes later, we’re in my kitchen reheating pasta and pouring another glass of wine. She looks impossibly good in my clothes, hair messy from my hands, cheeks still flushed. Domestic in a way that tightens my chest with want for things I haven’t let myself think about.
“This is really good,” she says, twirling linguine around her fork.
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I just figured you lived on protein shakes and takeout.”
“I do, mostly. But I can manage a few actual meals when properly motivated.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Properly motivated?”
“What can I say? Beautiful women make me want to show off.”
“Just any beautiful woman?”
I set down my fork, reaching across the small table to take her hand. “Just you.”
The admission hangs between us, more honest than I meant to be. But sitting here with her in my kitchen, wearing my clothes, sharing wine and pasta like we do this every night—it feels right in a way nothing has in a long time. That should probably scare me.
“Mitchell,” she starts, but I can see her overthinking starting to kick in.
“Movie?” I suggest. “Something mindless. No thinking allowed.”
Her smile is grateful, relieved. “Deal.”
We end up on my couch, her curled against my side while some action movie plays on the screen. I’m not paying attention to the plot—too focused on the way she fits against me, the soft sound of her breathing, the way her fingers trace idle patterns on my chest.
This is what I want, I realize. Not just tonight, but all of it. Her in my space, wearing my clothes, belonging here with me.
The thought should terrify me. Instead, it feels like coming home.