I force my grip to loosen, thumbs stroking soothing circles instead of gripping. I slow the kiss, gentling the pressure until it’s just lips on lips again. A few last lingering pecks, softer, sweeter.
When I finally pull back, her forehead rests against mine. Our breaths mingle in the cold air, both of us breathing a little harder than before. Her eyes flutter open. They’re darker now, pupils blown wide, cheeks flushed. She lifts her hands between us, fingers trembling slightly.
That was… good.
I smile, stupid and helpless. “Yeah,” I breathe. “Yeah, it really was.”
She hesitates. Then pulls out her phone and texts.
Bayleigh: I’d love for you to walk me to the door. But Benton may be home, and I don’t want tonight to be tainted with any of his drama.
“I understand.” As much as I want to be a gentleman, I’m going to respect her wishes. “But I’m not leaving until you’re inside.”
Bayleigh: I love that.
She hesitates for a moment, biting on her plump lip before her fingers start typing again.
Bayleigh: I want… more. But… not tonight.
Something in me that didn’t even realize it was braced, relaxes.
“Good,” I say, serious now. “Because I want a hell of a lot more. But only when you’re ready. For all of it.”
She searches my face as though she’s testing me, weighing the words.
Whatever she sees there must pass, because she smiles—a small, private thing—and nods.
Goodnight, Lincoln, she signs.
“Goodnight, Bayleigh.”
She opens the door, slides out, and closes it behind her. I watch her walk up the pathway to the porch, stopping when she gets to the door. She looks over at me once more and gives a little wave.
I stay there for a few minutes before she disappears inside, then I pull off. My heart beats way too fast for a simple first date. Except there’s nothing simple about it.
I’m already in deep. Deeper than I should be this early. Deeper than makes any kind of rational sense.
And I don’t care.
By the time I get home, the nerves have burned off. I kick my boots off and step into the living room.
Milton’s on the couch,Gold Rushon the TV, phone in his hand. Korbin’s in the armchair with one ankle propped on his knee, ice pack balanced lazily on his wrist from practice.
Two sets of eyes swing my way.
Milton’s mouth curves. “Well, well. Look who survived enemy territory.”
Korbin’s gaze flicks from my face to my neck like he’s checking for hickeys out of sheer reflex.
“Shut up,” I say automatically, but there’s no bite in it. I probably still smell like her.
Milton’s grin widens. “So?”
“So, what?”
He makes an exaggerated little heart with his hands. Dick. “How was it, Romeo?”
I drop onto the other end of the couch, stretching my legs out. “Good,” I say, and the word feels too small for what it was. “We talked. Ate. Didn’t get into a bar fight. That alone makes it a miracle.”
