For a moment, neither of us moved. The only sound was the wind rattling the loose glass in the window.
Lily drifted back to the window, arms wrapped tight around her waist. The mountains outside were painted purple and blue, the sky cut stars sparkling in the distance. She leaned in, pressing her forehead to the glass.
“I don’t think I’d ever get tired of this view,” she said, not turning around.
I stepped up behind her, so close I could feel the warmth of her back through her shirt. My hand hovered a few inches from her waist, and I hesitated, but then she leaned back, just a fraction, like an invitation.
I set my hand lightly at her hip. She didn’t pull away. Instead, she turned so she was facing me, eyes big and soft. Her skin glowed in the low light of the room, and there was this moment where everything else—the house, the world, the past—went silent.
I was working myself up to make the first move, but she beat me to it. She reached up, fingers feather-light, and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. I felt her touch all the way down my spine.
“You really don’t mind?” she asked, voice trembling a little. “About the bathroom. Or me, bossing you around a bit.”
“Not even a little,” I said.
She looked down, blushing. “I get carried away sometimes.”
“I like it,” I told her. “I like you.”
She looked up at me, and there was something in her face—a hunger, maybe, or just a need to be seen. I settled my hands on her waist and pulled her closer.
She closed the distance, her hands sliding up my chest. Her head barely reached my shoulder, but she fit against me like we’d been made for it. I wrapped both arms around her, careful but strong, and she melted into my body.
I could have stayed like that forever. But the feral part of me, the one that all the blood was rushing to right now, needed to make a move or break away. Or else I’d embarrass myself.
She looked up at me, lips parted, eyes searching my face. For once, I didn’t try to be clever or funny. I just let her read whatever was there.
She reached up and took my glasses off, folding them with one hand and setting them on the sill. Her gaze never left mine, even as she pressed closer, her breath feathering over my jaw. I ran a thumb along her cheek, just under the edge of her blushed cheekbone.
“I want you, Ford,” she whispered. The words were so soft I almost missed them, but their meaning hit me like a punch.
I didn’t need a second invitation. I bent and kissed her, slow at first—just lips, the faint taste of vanilla and wine intoxicating me. She leaned in, greedy, grabbing the front of my shirt and hauling me closer. Her mouth was soft but insistent, opening under mine with a sigh that sounded more like surrender than anything else.
I lifted her by the hips, half carrying, half guiding her to the bed. She fell onto the mattress, pulling me down with her, and for a moment we just stayed like that, hands and mouths roaming, no plan except to get as close as possible. She was trembling, but it wasn’t from cold.
I braced myself above her, searching her face for any sign I should stop, but all I saw was longing. Her hands worked theirway under my shirt, nails scraping lightly over my ribs, and I shivered. I’d been with women before—plenty, if I was being honest—but none of it had prepared me for this: the raw want, the need to be wanted back.
She tugged at my shirt and I peeled it over my head, then tossed it somewhere behind me. Her eyes went straight to the ink on my arms, lingering on the designs that crawled over my chest and shoulder. She traced one of the lines with her finger, the touch light enough to set every nerve ending on fire.
She kissed my neck, just under my ear, then worked her way down my chest, lips and tongue and teeth in a pattern that felt both wild and deliberate. I groaned, the sound echoing louder than I intended, and she laughed against my skin.
I reached for the hem of her shirt, but paused when my hand brushed the scar at her waist—a pale line, old but still angry-looking in the low light. She stiffened, her breath hitching.
“Can I?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
She nodded, eyes locked on mine, and raised her arms so I could pull the shirt off. Underneath, she wore a simple black bra, nothing fancy, but it made my mouth go dry. I took a second to memorize the way she looked, hair mussed, cheeks flushed, her small frame tense with anticipation.
I bent and kissed the scar, slow and gentle, letting my lips linger there. She let out a sound somewhere between a sob and a moan, her hands digging into my shoulders.
“You’re beautiful,” I told her, and I meant it.
She shook her head, but I kissed her again—this time on her lips, hard and deep—and let my hands wander. I undid the clasp at her back with more finesse than I expected, and she arched into me, chest pressed to mine, skin on skin. Her nipples were soft and dark, peaked already, and I ran my tongue over one while cupping the other in my palm. She gasped, threading herfingers into my hair and holding me there like I might disappear if she let go.
I worked my way down her stomach, kissing every inch, stopping at each mark left by the bastard who came before me. I wanted to erase his memory, to overwrite it with something better. She watched me, eyes glazed and full of something I couldn’t name.
When I reached the button on her jeans, I hesitated again. “Are you sure?”
“Don’t stop,” she said, voice trembling but sure.
