And she was already burning.
18
Weight of Wanting
Thatnight,afterhourson the water, they found themselves back at his place, standing on the dock under a blanket of stars. The sound stretched endlessly before them, black as ink, the water barely rippling against the wooden posts. The lanterns along the railing flickered softly, casting golden light against the dark, making everything feel impossibly intimate.
The air between them was thick with something unspoken, something electric. Chase stood close, his body a wall of warmth, his scent—salt, cedar, and something uniquely him—wrapping around her, making her dizzy.
Savannah shivered, though the night wasn’t cold.
It was him.
All him.
Chase’s gaze was heavy, lingering, his jaw tight as he studied her. He reached for her slowly, his fingers brushing over her wrist, then sliding up the inside of her forearm, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.
That touch undid her.
She inhaled sharply, tilting her chin up, her lips parting slightly—an invitation, a challenge, a plea. Chase took it without hesitation.
He pulled her in, capturing her lips in a way that made the rest of the world disappear.
His kiss wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t careful. It was consuming, deep, filled with the kind of hunger that spoke of years lost, of time wasted, of second chances finally seized. His hands gripped her waist, pulling her closer, fitting her body against his like he had been made to hold her. Savannah melted, her fingers threading into his hair, fisting the strands as if letting go meant losing everything.
She knew then—this wasn’t just a fling. It wasn’t just two people rekindling an old spark.
This was something deeper. Something undeniable.
And it terrified her just as much as it thrilled her.
Savannah didn’t think—she just reacted.
She climbed onto his lap, her knees straddling his hips, her dress riding up as she settled against him. Chase let out a low, almost guttural groan, his grip on her tightening like he was holding onto the last thread of his control. His hands spanned her thighs, warm and rough, his fingers pressing into her skin as if he needed to anchor himself.
“Jesus, Savannah—” His voice was hoarse, strained.
She leaned in, pressing her forehead against his, her breath mingling with his. "You started it," she murmured, a teasing lilt in her voice, though her own heart was hammering, her body thrumming with the need for more.
His chest rose and fell beneath her hands, his restraint evident in the way his muscles tensed beneath his shirt.
“Not like this,” he said, his voice like gravel, full of need and something else.
Her stomach flipped. “What do you mean?”
Chase exhaled slowly, his forehead still resting against hers. His hands settled at her waist, thumbs tracing slow, deliberate circles against her skin, soothing and torturous all at once.
“I want this,” he admitted. “God, do I want this. But not here. Not like this.”
Confusion flickered across her face, but before she could say anything, he lifted one hand, threading his fingers through her hair, untangling the strands that had caught in the sea breeze. His touch was achingly tender, reverent in a way that sent heat pooling in her belly.
“You’re not just another night, Savannah,” he murmured, his lips ghosting over the corner of her mouth. “You’re not just someone I’m going to fuck.”
Her breath caught. The blunt honesty of his words sent a sharp, sweet ache through her chest.
“I want to do this right,” he continued, his fingers brushing along her jaw, his thumb tracing the curve of her cheek. “You deserve more than rushed kisses on a dock and a night that feels too good to be real in the morning.”
Savannah swallowed hard, her hands still fisted in the fabric of his shirt. Her body was screaming in protest, every nerve ending on high alert, aching for him, for more.
