“Impossible for you, maybe.” I stroke my hand down her back, enjoying the low cut of her dress that peaks out from under her faux leather jacket. My fingers itch to slide underneath it.
Inside, the place is quiet except for the low notes of an indie track the manager queued up for us. It’s from the playlist Ivy created for me for Christmas. I hear the soft catch of her breath next to me when she realizes what’s playing.
“You remembered,” she whispers, her voice trembling between wonder and love.
“I remember everything when it comes to you,” I tell her as we’re guided to where they’ve set up the table for us.
Finding the back of Ivy’s chair, I pull it out for her. She sits, the fabric of her dress whispering against the seat, and I settle next to her. The manager says a polite “enjoy your evening” before footsteps fade.
“This is unreal,” my date says, her breath catching with emotion. “You didn’t have to do this.”
“That’s exactly why I did it. I wanted you to feel celebrated and cherished, as if you’re the only person in the world. Because to me, you are.”
The music shifts to another track, her favorite, and she lets out a soft laugh that’s part disbelief, part joy. “You make me feel like I’m living inside a love song and I never want it to end.”
“Then let’s never let the music quiet down.”
For the next three hours, we enjoy each other’s company. Ivy orders her favorite cocktails—she swears they taste better here than anywhere else—and I let her talk me into ordering more rounds. We devour burgers dripping with sauce and I make her laugh when I manage to spill some on my shirt. Conversation drifts easily from her wild nights here with her friends, to my worst rookie stories. And finally to what the future might look like when recovery isn’t the centerpiece of our lives.
Time is suspended for the night, destiny granting us a reprieve from the chaos of our lives. Just Ivy and me, soaking in the simple magic of being together.
We barely make it through the door of my apartment before our mouths crash together. My back hits the wall as Ivy presses into me. She tastes sweet, like the cocktails we had all evening, her lips urgent on mine.
“You’ve no idea what being next to you for three straight hours, without being able to do more than kiss, did to me,” she says, mouth grazing my jaw. “I wanted you all damn dinner.”
“Then what are you waiting for?” I ask, dropping my outerwear on the floor.
She strips my shirt away, her nails scratching across my chest as if she wants to mark every inch of me. I reach for her in return, sliding my hands beneath her jacket, taking it off slowly. She laughs as it catches on her elbow.
“Too many clothes, not enough hands,” I mutter as I tug it free. My hands undo the zipper of her dress and I let it slip to the floor. Her underwear follows.
As I run my hands over her bare skin, goosebumps rise wherever I touch. I lick my way down her neck, over her collarbone, savoring the taste of her skin. Her fingers find the waistband of my pants, tugging them low with my briefs as I toe off the last of my clothes.
She drags us backward, step by clumsy step until the backs of her knees hit the couch. We fall into it together, a tangle of limbs and laughter, our mouths never parting for long. I kiss her the way I always do when I’m drunk on her—slow at first as if I’m memorizing her for the first time, even if it's the thousandth time. Then my kisses get hungrier and sloppier.
Her hips roll up to meet mine, her thighs spreading for me, welcoming me. “You feel so good,” she breathes against my neck.
Dipping my fingers between her legs, I groan, finding her already slick and wanting. I tease her, all while loving the way her body arches for my touch.
“Need you inside me,” she whimpers. “Please.”
“Not here.” My voice is rough with want. “I have another surprise for you upstairs.”
Her giggles break through the haze of lust when I scoop her into my arms. The sound vibrates against my chest, brighter than anything else. I carefully carry her up the steps, guided by the memory of the place and the steady rhythm of her lips brushing against my neck. Each kiss makes me shiver, my grip tightening around her.
I set her down on the bed and she asks, “What are you up to, Seaborn?”
“Trust me,” I murmur, reaching into the nightstand where I stashed the massage oil earlier. The bottle clicks open, the scent of vanilla spilling into the air.
“You planned all this just because?”
I pour the oil into my palms and rub until the warmth spreads through my skin. “You deserve to be spoiled, so flip over and let me take care of you.”
I get on my knees beside her, lowering my hands to her bare upper back. Her skin is silk under my touch, heat rising beneath every glide of my palms. I knead gently, working along the tension at her shoulders before trailing down the length of her arms.
She sighs, soft and loose, sinking deeper into the mattress. I spread the oil across her back in slow sweeps. My hands linger at the dip of her spine, then glide over the curve of her ass. Islide lower, along the tops of her thighs, pressing into the muscle until she moans into the sheets.
When I’ve touched every inch of her I can reach, I lean closer, my voice low. “Turn over for me. I want to see what else I can do for you.”
