I shift deeper, find a rhythm that makes her lashes flutter closed. When she starts to come apart—her breathing coming in choppy gasps, hips chasing after mine—I slow the pace just enough to stretch the moment, to watch it build in her, to feel her tremble around me.
Her forehead presses into my shoulder. Her body tightens, then breaks open, a sharp inhale turning into a sound impossible to swallow. She clings to me, and I freeze for a second, stunned by the intensity of watching as she lets go so completely.
Nothing in my life matters except her. That realization hits hard enough to blindside me.
I move again, deeper, rougher, chasing the edge that’s been hovering in my gut since I first touched her. My control slips fast—too fast—but I don’t fight it. I let myself fall into it, into her, into the way she holds me like I’m exactly where I belong.
The release comes sharp and blinding, pulling a groan from my chest that I don’t recognize as my own. My hips stutter. My forehead drops to hers. My eyes squeeze shut as sensation crests and breaks, leaving me breathless and wrecked and frighteningly clear-headed all at once.
When it fades, I stay where I am, breathing hard, unwilling to put space between us yet.
I don’t have a plan, no strategy to keep her. All I have is this moment with her, and the quiet, terrifying certainty settling in my bones that this was never going to be casual.
8
Darby
I wake alone, tangled in sheets that smell like Greg—woodsy, earthy—and last night’s marathon sex session. My body hums, slow and lazy, a little sleep deprived, and a lot sore… in all the delicious places. I blink at the ceiling, smiling to myself at how lucky I am.
A low mechanical whirr kicks on and off in the other room. I listen to the rhythm of what can only be Greg moving around in my kitchen. A strange little thrill slides down my spine.
I clutch the sheet to my chest and wrap it around my body before padding the short distance from my bedroom to the kitchen.
Greg stands at my stove in yesterday’s jeans and shirt, sleeves shoved up his forearms, hair slightly rumpled like he ran his hands through it instead of finding a mirror. Steam curls from a mug near the coffeemaker as he works a spatula through a pan of eggs.
My stomach betrays me with a loud, traitorous growl.
He glances over his shoulder, one brow lifting as his mouth twitches. “Good morning to you, too.”
I tighten the sheet reflexively, and shuffle farther into the kitchen, drawn by the smell of melted butter on fresh sourdough toast. “What are you doing?”
“Feeding you.”
My chest tightens, but I refuse to break down the gravity of a man taking the time to make me a meal. “No man has ever cooked me breakfast.”
“Seems like a grave oversight.” He glances at me again, this time taking a moment to scan my body. “And I’m not just any man, Darby.”
“Trust me,” I grin. “I noticed.”
He sets a plate down in front of me and nudges it closer. “Eat before your stomach files another complaint.”
I steal a bite with my fingers before digging forks and napkins from a drawer. I chew, suspiciously pleased. The man can cook. “Oh, my God,” I mumble through a second bite.
He smiles like that’s exactly what he was hoping for.
I’m halfway through another bite when he glances at the clock on the microwave. “I should head out. Gotta grab a change of clothes before heading to work.”
“Oh. Right,” I say, before grabbing a bite of toast. “Me, too. Not like this is work appropriate.”
I gesture vaguely at myself. He scans my body again, stopping at my bare legs and feet.
“Are you kidding? It’s giving Greek tragedy vibes.” He chuckles.
“Cute.”
He steps closer. Heat radiates off him, reminding me of all we shared last night. My pulse spikes, my body preparing itself for more as he leans in to kiss me. We bump noses. I huff a laugh. He smiles into it before we get it right. It’s awkward in a careful sort of way.
When he opens the door on his way out, a bright red piece of paper flutters in the draft.
