The night air bites at my wet clothes, water sloshing in the plastic wrapping around my foot, but I feel incandescent. As we near the cottage, the neat row of houses rises in silhouette against the darkening sky, their roofs etched in the last streaks of blue and fading orange.
Ellenor and Mum are out. We have the whole place to ourselves.
Brandon doesn’t put me down until we reach his bedroom.
He lowers me onto the edge of the bed—gently, but I wince as a random flash of pain shoots through my leg.
“Are you alright?” he asks.
I nod, trying to peel away the damp plastic wrapping. It’s taped down tight, and my fingers are clumsy and shaking. “Can you help me with this?”
He kneels down and removes it within minutes, leaving me to wonder—what next?
We could so easily keep going. I want to.
The mere sight of Brandon is appealing beyond reason. His soaked shirt clings to him, outlining every line of muscle. His hair is a wet mess, brow furrowed, chest rising and falling with each breath.
He leans in to kiss me, and my fingers curl in his shirt. Our mouths meet, our lips cold from the sea air, but the kiss itself is heat. A fire roars to life, burning through every careful boundary we’ve held.
He meets my gaze, reading my unspoken invitation.
“Are you sure?” he asks, every syllable resonating.
“Yes, I am.”
I want him. I want the heat of his mouth, the weight of him pinning me down again, to taste the saltwater on his skin.
“Should I—?” His gaze flicks toward the drawer.
“I’m on birth control,” I say quietly.
He holds my gaze. “Do you want me to anyway?”
I shake my head. “I don’t want anything between us. I…want to feel you.”
Surprise and hunger flare in his eyes. “Alright.”
His gaze follows every movement of my fingers as I unbutton his shirt, my hands slipping inside, tracing heat, muscle, the solid breadth of his chest. The intensity of his attention makes my pulse race, heat pooling low in my core beneath his dark gaze.
I attempt to lean closer, but a spike of pain shoots through my foot. I tense, the chill of the room catching up with me, the jolt reverberating far beyond the injury. It leaves me suddenly fragile in my own skin—every uncertainty louder, desire giving way to the need for a different kind of warmth. Something softer and more aching: the wish to be held, reassured, until the stinging gathering behind my eyes fades.
“Lily?” Brandon asks, concern filling his eyes.
“I’m fine,” I say, drawing him in for a kiss. His lips move against mine, a slow, claiming press, as if he’s savouring every moment. It feels so good—his warmth, his closeness—but the pleasure is threaded with pain, radiating faintly up my leg and echoing along my spine. My face tightens, my shallow breathing reminding me how close to tears I really am.
God. I’m so unprepared for this. I haven’t even shaved my legs since the accident.
“Who cares?” Ellenor would say. “He’s a guy. He doesn’t even know you have legs!”
But it’s not just that. It’s the whole thing. This isn’t how I imagined our first time.
Not in tracksuit pants.
Not with no decent underwear underneath.
Not with painful zingers shooting up my leg.
And for God’s sake, not when I’m thinking of my bloody sister.
