I unbuttoned them slowly, tugged the denim down her legs. She kicked off her boots, then her jeans, leaving her in just a pair of cotton panties—light blue, with a little bow at the waistband. I almost laughed at how adorable she was, but the look on her face stopped me. It was pure siren.
I peeled the cotton down, careful not to rush, and took her all in. She was lean, all muscle and pale skin, but her thighs shook with anticipation. I bent and kissed the scar on her inner thigh, then worked my way up, tasting her, savoring every second.
She was already wet, and I ran my tongue over her slowly, circling the clit, then dipping inside, drawing out the first real moan I’d ever heard from her. She bucked against my mouth, hands in my hair, pulling me closer. I licked and sucked and teased her, not stopping until she was panting, eyes screwed shut, body tense as a bowstring.
“Ford,” she gasped. “Please.”
I wanted to make her wait, to draw it out, but I couldn’t. Not when she looked at me like that.
I crawled back up, kissing her as I went, and she grabbed the back of my head, holding me there. I fumbled at my jeans, but she beat me to it, undoing the button and pulling the denim down my hips. She found me hard and ready, and for a second, her eyes went wide.
“I want to feel you,” she whispered.
I grabbed a condom from my pocket—thanking my wishful thinking and preparation—and rolled it on with shaking hands. I lined myself up, pausing at her entrance. She nodded, her legs wrapping around my waist, pulling me in. The first push was slow, careful, but she was so damn tight I almost lost it.
She dug her heels into my back, urging me deeper, and I obliged, burying myself to the hilt. She cried out, but it was a good sound, and I rocked into her, slow at first, then faster as she adjusted. Her hands gripped my shoulders, nails biting deep, and I relished the pain.
We moved together, finding a rhythm, both of us lost in the need to be as close as possible. She pulled me down, kissing me hard, our bodies sliding against each other, sweaty and desperate.
“You’re so perfect, Lily. So. Fucking. Perfect.” I thrusted to punctuate each word.
I felt her start to come undone, her muscles clenching around me, her cries muffled by my mouth.
I held out as long as I could, but the way she felt, the way she looked, the way she wanted me—it was too much. I came with a shudder and a groan, buried deep inside, and collapsed onto her, both of us gasping for air.
We stayed like that for a long time, tangled in the sheets, her body wrapped around mine. I kissed the top of her head, her cheek, her shoulder, and she let me, her breath slow and even now.
I slid out of her, rolling to the side, but kept my arm draped over her waist. She turned into me, head on my chest, one hand tracing lazy circles over my heart.
Neither of us spoke. We didn’t need to.
The room was quiet except for the wind rattling the windows and the soft, even breathing from each of us.
I closed my eyes and let myself believe that this was real, that it wasn’t a fluke or a mistake or a dream I’d wake up from.
She belonged in my arms, in my bed, in my house.
I belonged to her, too.
Nineteen
Lily
It was almost noon before I realized the only thing I’d eaten all day was a single, questionably stale animal cracker I’d found on the coffee table. The apartment was clean—freakishly clean, considering the state I usually left it in—but I kept finding ways to busy myself. Dusted the shelves. Rearranged the mugs. Wiped the kitchen table three times, each with a fresh, citrus-scented wipe. I even tried to vacuum a second time, until I remembered the motor screamed like a dying banshee and I didn’t want to risk my landlord’s passive-aggressive notes about “respectable noise levels.”
Noah was at preschool and I had the day off without the need to run errands or rush to therapy appointments. Which meant, for the first time in ages, the apartment was silent enough to hear my own thoughts rattling around. That was a dangerous thing to leave unsupervised.
I checked my phone—again. Caroline was supposed to come by for coffee at one. She’d texted at six AM (overachiever) to remind me, and again at noon to confirm. I’d replied with a thumbs up, because I didn’t trust myself to use actual words without sounding like I was about to have a stroke.
The real reason for all this nervous energy was still sprawled out in the back of my mind, like a six-foot-two, tattooed, blue-eyed memory of last night. I’d replayed every second of it—the way Ford held me, the things he said, the things he did to me—so many times that the tape was starting to go fuzzy. Every time I stopped moving, my brain would loop back to the way he’d looked at me after, like I was the only thing keeping him grounded to the earth.
Or maybe I was just desperate to believe that.
At 12:53, I made the coffee. Caroline liked hers strong, no sugar, just a splash of milk. I set up the mugs, then immediately redid them so they’d be more “casually inviting,” whatever that meant. I checked the clock. Again. My hands were shaking, just a little.
I made a list of all the ways this was going to be a disaster:
1. Caroline would see right through me and know immediately that I’d slept with Ford.
