We test the window together—open, close, clean slide, the click of the latch as satisfying as a solved chord. “Good,” she says, pride lighting her face—my favorite ruinous thing. “Thank you.”
“Payment accepted in tea and seven reckless seconds,” I say, then immediately wish I had half the sense God gave a fence post.
She blinks. “Seven?”
“That’s the number of kisses I can survive tonight,” I say, not moving. “If you want to.”
Silence. The rope hums. Somewhere below, a gull chooses violence against a trash can. She steps forward like the body knows before the brain does.
“Seven,” she echoes, fingers finding the front of my shirt.
We don’t rush. We inventory like this is a valuable thing that deserves care: the way her breath hitches; the way my hands hover at her waist and choose gentleness; the way we both laugh once, a small sound that breaks the fear in half. Then I bend, and she rises. Our mouths meet with the kind of gravity that’s a choice.
One. Heat.
Two. The taste of mint and tea and her, my whole chest going unsteady.
Three. Her hand slides to the back of my neck, and I have to reset the world under my feet.
Four. My thumb traces her jaw, and her lips part, and I think I will live inside this exact second until I die.
Five. Her laugh in my mouth, the soft kind that means she’s not bracing.
Six. The tiniest sound from me I’ve never made before. She answers with a sigh that’s the map key to every yes.
Seven. We stop. Foreheads pressed. A breath shared like a stolen secret.
We don’t move for a count of eight, nine, ten, because rules are real, and patience is a holy language, and I will learn it if it kills me. When we step back, our hands are still linked without either of us purposely doing it.
“Okay,” she says, eyes bright and wrecked. “That was reckless.”
“Measured,” I whisper. “Science.”
“I think I want to be reckless for longer. Reckless enough to think I’m enough to make you stay.” She bites her plump lip, and the growing erection in my pants jerks at the movement.
“Sweetheart, you’re more than enough reason to stay. Let me help you believe that.”
My hand that gently touches her waist slinks up under the cotton of her shirt. The tips of my fingers glide along the soft skin of her waist, and her breath shudders with each gentle stroke.
“I love the feel of your skin,” I moan as my hand reaches the underside of her bra. Bailey’s breath hitches as I unhook the latches along her back, releasing the breasts I’ve been dying to get my hands on.
Her back arches as my lips find their way to the soft skin of her neck.
“Crew,” she groans, her thighs rubbing against each other as she squirms against my touch. My fingers slip under the lace of her bra and gently caress her nipples. The sensation of her sensitive peaks hardening under my touch has my cock jerking within the confines of my jeans.
“Bailey.”
“Hmm…” she replies as I press my lips to the corner of her mouth.
“Let me make you feel good. No rules. Just you and me. Will you let me?” I ask, my eyes snagging on the thick blankets she keeps folded in the corner of the lantern room.
“Yes,” Bailey says with zero hesitation.
In a move I’ll have to mentally play back later, I reach out and snag the end of one of the blankets and flick it on the hard, cold floor behind Bailey. She scooches back on instinct until she’s seated in the same spot we met for tea all those days ago.
Sitting back on my heels, I let my eyes travel over her body, and I can’t help but think about how long I’ve waited to have her like this.
“Take off your shirt,” I demand, my voice gravelly to my own ears. Bailey’s eyebrows lift, and her chest stops moving. But it takes only a second for her cheeks to redden before she tucksher chin toward her chest and slowly lifts the thin material over her head. The straps of her bra follow suit without me even having to ask.
