"I had to teach our son not to expect you. I had to teach myself." My chest hurts, my throat burns, but I can't stop. "And then New York happens, and for a minute there, for one stupid minute, I forgot all that."
I press my fingertips hard against my eyes, willing the burning sensation to stop.
"And Jerry?" Woody asks, his voice so low I almost miss it.
"What about Jerry? What is your obsession with him? He's not you. Is that what you need to hear?"
"No. I don’t know why. I want to be that for you, not Jerry. Are you going to marry him?"
The question hangs between us, sharp and heavy.
"No, Woody. We broke up three months ago. We aren’t getting married. We aren’t even really dating anymore."
He does an exaggerated blink and breathes in deeply through his nose.
The car slows to a stopat a red light.
"Lane." He turns in his seat, his eyes finding mine in the darkness. "I've never stopped?—"
My phone erupts with the cheerful notes of "Walking On Sunshine." Jerry's name flashes on the screen.
The moment shatters.But I need to hear him finish his sentence. He never stopped…
The phone chimes once more before I silence it, shoving it deep into my pocket.
The light turns green, and his SUV idles back to life, tension crackling between us like a live wire. Neither of us speaks for the rest of the drive. What is there to say when we've ripped open old wounds only to find they never really healed?
Minutes later, Woody pulls in front of my house. The familiar sage-green porch glows beneath the streetlight, welcoming and warm.
The engine cuts, leaving us suspended in silence.
"I should go," I whisper, but my hand stays on my knee instead of reaching for the door handle.
"Lane."
The way he says my name catches in my throat. It’s not just a sound. It’s a plea.
He turns, eyes dark and raw. "I've never stopped loving you."
The words hollow me out, stealing my breath. Before I can form a thought, his hand fists in my jacket, yanking me across the console. His mouth crushes mine, hard and desperate.
Stubble scrapes my skin, the seatbelt cuts into my hip as I twist toward him. His breath is hot, spilling into my lungs like fire.
I clutch his collar, dragging him closer, my pulse roaring. His hand fists in my hair, tugging just enough to makeme gasp, the other sliding roughly up my thigh, catching on the fabric before shoving beneath.
My middle throbs for him, yearning for his touch.
The leather seat squeaks under us. The console digs into my thigh, bruising, but I don’t move. His mouth crashes into mine, coffee on his tongue. Underneath it is something I know too well that is reckless, dangerous, him.
I moan into his mouth, shameless, my body tilting toward his like it remembers what it will do to me, how good it will feel.
Our breathing grows ragged, fogging the windows. His palm cups my breast through my shirt, thumb circling until the ache spears down low. I arch, pressing into him, greedy for more.
"Woody," I gasp, my voice breaking as his lips trail down my throat, finding the soft spot that makes me shiver.
His hand slips under the waistband of my pants, fingertips sliding over bare skin, and every nerve in my body sparks to life. I rock against him, hips begging without permission.
He presses his hand low against my stomach. The pressure makes me gasp. It’s so good, but nowhere near enough.
