"And yet, I do know it about you," he says simply. “With absolute certainty.”
Something turns over in my chest, slow and warm.
He reaches up and takes my hand, not pulling, just holding it. His thumb moves once across my knuckles. The touch is so quiet and so deliberate that it undoes me.
"Alice,” he says in a low, oh-so-tempting tone.
"Cal,” I say, my voice barely a whisper.
He stands.
He's taller than I registered out on the trail, or maybe it's just that there's no distance between us now, just the warmth coming off him and his eyes on mine, waiting. Patient in a way that makes patience feel like its own kind of intensity.
I close the last inch.
He kisses me the way I somehow knew he would. Without hesitation, without performance, like a thing he has decided and is now simply doing. One hand comes up to my jaw, tilting my face to his, and I feel the careful strength in it and stop thinking about anything at all.
When he pulls back it's only far enough to look at me. His thumb traces the line of my cheekbone.
"Alice," he says again. Just my name. Like it's the whole sentence. But I know what he’s asking.
"Don't stop," I say.
He makes a low sound and kisses me again, deeper this time, his hand sliding to the back of my neck, and the last of the evening's cold—the trail, the dark, the stiff fingers and the embarrassing fear—burns away entirely.
Chapter Five
Cal
Iwalkhertothe bedroom meaning to say good night.
I don't say good night.
She turns in the doorway and looks at me in that considering way she has, like she's deciding whether the thing she's about to do is wise. Then she reaches up, hooks two fingers in the front of my shirt, and pulls me through.
The lamp on the dresser throws a low amber light across the room. I reach past her and turn it down further—not off, just enough that the edges soften. I want to see her.
She's still wearing my sweatshirt. I take the hem of the sweatshirt and her sweater beneath in in both hands and liftthem over her head slowly, giving her time, watching her face rather than rushing to look elsewhere. Her eyes stay on mine the whole time, steady and dark.
I drop the sweatshirt on the chair and look at her. My eyes settle on the tops of her breasts spilling out of a simple cotton bra.
"You’re so beautiful,” I tell her, my voice husky.
She makes a small sound I feel in my sternum and reaches for my shirt buttons.
I let her work through them, watching her hands, the focus in her expression, the way a small line forms between her brows when the third button sticks. I cover her hands with mine and undo it, and she looks up at me with something that is almost a smile and entirely something else.
I shrug the shirt off. She puts her palms flat against my chest and just holds them there. Learning the shape of me.
Her hands are warm, and I feel each point of contact with a precision that makes it hard to think in complete sentences.
I reach around her and unhook her bra, slide the straps down her shoulders, and let it fall. Andholy. She’s a goddess.It’s notjusther beautiful curves. It’sthe way she holds herself. The faint flush already climbing her throat.
I sit on the edge of the bed and draw her between my knees.
I start at her collarbone. Press my mouth there, feel the warmth of her skin, the slight give of it. Move to the curve of her shoulder, then the soft place below her ear. She exhales — not quite a sound yet, just a release of breath — and her fingers slide into my hair.
I take my time at her throat, her jaw, the corner of her mouth, making her turn her head to find my lips with hers. She does, without hesitation, and when I finally kiss her properly she leans into it with her whole body, both hands framing my face. I feelthe slight scrape of her nails at my temple. It does something to my focus.
