That undoes me. I kiss her harder, both hands sliding up to frame her face, fingers threading into her hair, holding her like I can’t get close enough. She shifts without hesitation, straddling my lap, and my chest pounds with every move she makes against me.
Her arms loop tight around my neck, her fingers tugging at my hair, and the kiss turns wild—messy, consuming. I grip her back, her waist, anywhere I can anchor her to me, not to take anything from her, but because I need to feel her everywhere.
The kiss turns reckless, messy, too good. And I forgeteverything but the taste of her, the warmth of her mouth, the way she clings to me like she never wants to let go.
Then the heat shifts and I feel it, the pull toward something I can’t let happen. Not like this.
“Ivy—” I murmur against her lips, but she kisses me again, and I almost give in. Almost.
With a groan that costs me everything, I tear my mouth from hers, pressing my forehead to hers, forcing my breathing to steady. My hands are still cradling her face, holding her like she might break if I let go.
Her wide eyes search mine, lips swollen, chest rising and falling in time with mine.
I swallow, voice low, rough. “If we don’t stop now…” I pause, tightening my grip on her just slightly. “I won’t be able to.”
Silence settles between us. Ivy nods, then lays her head on my chest, and I pull the blanket around both of us. My hand moves slowly across her back, just tracing. She relaxes completely in my arms.
Later, I walk her to her car, headlights casting long beams across the quiet parking lot. She glances back at me, smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, and I wonder how I’m supposed to let her drive away after this.
I lean against the hood of my truck long after her taillights disappear, heart still racing, lips still tingling.
I’d joked last night that I wouldn’t be able to sleep, imagining how I would kiss her for the first time.
Turns out, it was nothing like I imagined.
It was better. So much better.
Chapter 16
Ivy
My kitchen table looks less like a place for meals and more like a war zone of sticky notes, empty coffee mugs, and open sketch pads. Two different clients are blowing up my inbox—one wants their logo in “a softer shade of teal”, and another can’t decide if their bakery font should be whimsical or professional. Spoiler: it can be both.
I rub my temples, push my blue light glasses up the bridge of my nose, and lean closer to my laptop. Three tabs open with design programs, two with stock photo sites, one with Pinterest, and exactly zero with food delivery, though I’m regretting that now.
“This is what freedom looks like,” I mutter under my breath, half convincing myself. I traded in the office job for this—clients from all over, projects that make my brain stretch, and the ability to work in sweatpants without anyone judging me. Well…unless you count Harper, who swears I’m a workaholic now, or Olivia, who says I look “too happy” to be as swamped as I claim.
They’re both right.
Because somewhere between revising website bannersand re-coloring Instagram templates, I’ve developed this ridiculous new crutch: Gray.
And okay, maybe I’ve replayed that kiss in my head more than once this week. Or a hundred times.
It’s been a week since that night at his apartment—since the rain, the movie, and the way his lips felt against mine like he’d been holding back for years. We haven’t kissed again, mostly because we haven’t seen each other in person. Life got in the way—work deadlines, friends and other obligations pulling us in opposite directions.
But even with the distance, the tension hasn’t faded. It lingers in every late-night call, every playful text that stretches longer than it should, every pause where neither of us wants to hang up.
My mind blanks. The creative spark that’s usually quick to light stays frustratingly still.
I close my laptop with a sigh, lean back in my chair, and stare at the ceiling. My to-do list is long, but what I really want is something simple.
I want to hear his voice.
Before I can overthink it, I grab my phone, thumb hovering over his name.
I rub my temples and glance at the screen. I had promised to call Gray at some point today. My thumb hovers for just a second before I hit his contact and press the call button.
“Please distract me from hex codes and deadlines,” I whisper as it rings.
