When he pulled back, his ears were flaming pink, but his voice was steady. “Get your shampoo,” he said, rougher than before. “I’ll meet you at the register.”
He turned and walked away, and I watched him go with a satisfaction that was probably written all over my face, the taste of him still lingering.
At the counter, the teenager was still absorbed in their phone, thumbs flying across the screen in what was probably a very important text conversation. They hadn’t looked up once since we’d arrived. Small town discretion at its finest.
The drive back to the cabin was quiet, but not uncomfortably so. Farley had the heat cranked up, some classical station playinglow on the radio, and every so often his hand would drift from the gearshift to rest on my knee before returning to the wheel.
Casual. Like it meant nothing.
It meant everything.
We put the groceries away in charged silence. Every time we passed each other in the small kitchen, our shoulders would brush, our hands would touch, and the tension would ratchet up another notch. I was acutely aware of where he was at all times—the sound of his breathing, the rustle of his clothes, the way he kept glancing at me when he thought I wasn’t looking.
“So,” Farley said, closing the refrigerator. “I was thinking for dinner—”
I kissed him.
I didn’t plan it. One second he was talking about dinner, and the next I had him backed against the counter with my mouth on his and my hands fisted in his sweater.
Farley made a surprised sound—then grabbed the front of my shirt and pulled me closer.
This wasn’t like the kiss in the snow. That had been tender, deliberate—Farley making a choice. This was hunger. This was two days of sleeping in the same bed without touching, of “just friends” that had never been just anything, of wanting and waiting and finally.
“Couch,” Farley gasped against my mouth.
“Yeah.”
We stumbled toward the living room without separating, bumping into the doorframe, nearly tripping over Purrsephone—who yowled indignantly and fled—until we collapsed onto the couch in a tangle of limbs.
Farley ended up beneath me, which was an excellent development. His hands slid under my shirt, palms warm against my skin, and I shuddered at the contact.
“Is this okay?” he asked, pulling back just enough to meet my eyes.
“This is extremely okay.”
“Good.” He pulled me back down.
His mouth was hot, demanding—nothing like the careful, controlled Farley I’d come to know. This version was greedy, impatient, and I matched him kiss for kiss, touch for touch. When I shifted my hips, he made a sound that shot straight through me.
“Samuel—”
“I know.”
“We should probably—”
“Not talk. Yes. Agreed.”
He laughed against my mouth, breathless and wanting, and I was reaching for the hem of his sweater when—
My phone rang.
We both froze.
“Ignore it,” Farley said.
“Way ahead of you.”
The ringing stopped. We resumed. His hands found my belt, and I was absolutely not thinking about anything except the way his breath hitched when I—
