The moment I’m close enough, he reaches for me, pulling me forward by my belt loop until I’m caged between his denim-clad thighs. A gasp falls out. My hands brace against his shoulders, fingers curling into heat and muscle.
I melt when he grazes his fingertips up the backs of my thighs, his forehead dropping to my abdomen, warm breath seeping through the thin fabric of my blouse. Sagging, I sink into him, trailing my hands up his neck until they land in waves of silken hair.
My eyelids flutter at the contact. Intimate. Habitual.
Eight lonely months filter through my mind of tearstained pillows, empty beds, and stiff couches. Absence. Something vital severed at the quick.
But now he’s here, in my arms, breathing and warm, his cheek pressed to my stomach as his hands tighten around my thighs, bringing me closer.
Tingles light me up from toes to top. A need that never died.
I lick my lips, mouth dryer than a decade-old tumbleweed, and a question slips out, unprecedented. “Have you been with anyone else?”
He falters, stilling at the question. Then his face lifts, brows bent like he must not have heard me correctly. “What?”
Embarrassment trickles through me, laced with stupidity. “Sorry…I don’t know why I asked that.”
“No,” he says quickly. “God. No. Only you.”
Tears puddle in my eyes. “Okay.”
“Annie…” Chase drags his hands up my legs, my butt, the small of my back. “It’s only been you. For years. There’s no one else. It’s you in every thought, every quiet moment, every dream that isn’t dark and terrifying. Just you. Don’t ever question that.”
My breath hitches. “Me too.”
He pulls me closer until I’m half leaning over him, and his mouth trails up, hovering just below the space between my breasts. My grip on his hair tightens, and I can’t help but wonder what comes next.
We haven’t kissed yet.
We’ve held, and we’ve touched, and we’ve curled into U-shapes, tanglingtogether until we don’t know where the other one begins. But we haven’t kissed.
And now it’s all I can think about. His lips on mine. His tongue inside me, anywhere, everywhere. My breathing is soft but erratic, and so is his. I feel it whispering uncertainty and desire against me. I raise my leg and press my knee to the cushion, on my way to straddling him.
But then he stiffens.
Peering down, I watch his eyes close tight as he fights against something. “Chase…”
He inches back, hands slowly falling from my waist. “Bok choy, huh?”
I frown, disappointment creeping in. “Yeah. And steak stir-fry.”
“Did you learn how to cook?”
Sweeping hair off my face, I step backward, adding space between us. “Not really. But I learned how to batter a steak into pulp. Surprisingly effective coping mechanism.”
He nods, scrubbing a hand down his face.
And that’s that.
The disappointment follows me into the bedroom while I tuck my clothes into drawers and hang my dresses in the small closet. A bright red pair of lingerie lingers in my hands as I brush my thumb over the satiny fabric, then hide it away.
An hour later, the kitchen is a mess: vegetable peels everywhere, a cutting board stained with soy sauce, and a skillet spitting oil like even it can’t stomach my inadequacy. I’ve used every pan I could find and googled “how to cook” at least three times, convinced everything is either raw, overcooked, or plotting revenge.
The steak is half seared and half suffering, but I’ve cut it thin and tossed it in something resembling sauce. There’s garlic, ginger, soy, sesame oil, and the evident panic of someone trying not to poison the person she loves.
I plate it with shaky hands, set two mismatched bowls on the table, and step back like I’ve just disarmed a bomb. “Bon appétit,” I murmur, wringing my hands together as I watch Chase squint down at the plate of mayhem.
“Smells good,” he says.
