TWENTY-NINE
CLARA
Snow squeakedunder my boots as I stepped inside, the blast of heat from the vents a welcome reprieve. I bent to kick off my shoes, my cheeks still warm from La Casita’s salsa and from the way Wes had watched me over the table like I was more interesting than the entire laminated menu.
I had one heel half out of my boot when the door clicked shut behind us.
Before I could straighten, his fingers circled my wrist. Gentle and sure.
I looked up just as he turned me.
My back met the inside of the door with a soft thud. Wes crowded in, all worn flannel and clean soap and winter air, his gaze dropping to my mouth like he’d been holding himself together by sheer force of will.
Then he kissed me.
There was nothing careful about it. His mouth was hot and hungry, teeth catching my lower lip in a way that stole the breath from my lungs. His hands bracketed my hips, thumbs digging in just enough to make my knees wobble. Every inch of him was solid against me, his thigh pressed between mine, the steadyanchor of his prosthetic making it feel like the door and his body were the only things keeping me upright.
A broken sound slipped out of me, half gasp, halfyes.
He pulled back an inch, his breath rough against my lips. “I’ve been waiting to do that all damn night,” he said, voice shredded.
Heat shot straight through me, low and sharp. This wasn’t a lesson. This was not a clinical, scheduled exercise. This was a man who had sat across from me in a vinyl booth, pretending to care about salsa choices while his mind was already here.
Any thought I had about rules or pacing evaporated.
My fingers fisted in the front of his shirt, and I dragged him back down, kissing him like I’d been just as useless at waiting. His mouth opened under mine with a quiet, wrecked groan, one hand sliding up my spine, into my hair, tugging just enough to tilt my head the way he wanted it. I pressed closer, chest to chest, hips rolling in a slow, helpless grind that had nothing to do with strategy and everything to do with the anticipation of what could come next.
The prosthetic didn’t matter. The accident didn’t matter. There was just his tongue stroking into my mouth, his palm curving over my ass, the way my body reacted like it had been primed for this very moment.
Yes, yes, yesthrummed through my veins, tangled right up with a wild flash ofwe have rules and I do not care about a single one of them.
We broke apart on the same ragged breath.
He rested his forehead against mine, eyes closed, like he needed to recalibrate his entire nervous system. His chest rose and fell against mine, not entirely steady.
“Your brother,” he said eventually, voice still rough, “is the ultimate cockblock, you know that? I couldn’t even buy condoms without him materializing out of nowhere.”
I blinked, and then the picture hit: Wes in the aisle of a store and Hayes appearing like a cursed jack-in-the-box. Laughter punched out of me, bright and breathless.
“Good thing I trust absolutely no one with my sex life but myself,” I managed.
He drew back just enough to see my face. “What does that mean?”
My heart hammered. Nerves and giddy anticipation collided as I slid my hand into my purse, fingers closing around cardboard.
I pulled out the economy-size box and held it up between us like a rabbit out of a hat. “Ta-da.”
His brows shot up.
“You got the big box,” he said, a low, pleased rumble that stroked over every raw place inside me as his hips pushed into me.
Heat crawled up my neck. I forced my chin up anyway. “Optimism looks good on you, Vaughn,” I said. “I thought I’d try it too.”
Something loosened in his face. Old Wes flickered through—the one who would have made a filthy joke and backed it up, the one who walked into a room like he knew exactly what he could do with his body. It mixed with the new version of him, the one still relearning his edges, and the combination nearly knocked my knees out.
The joke settled between us, softer at the edges, like we both recognized what we were actually doing here. This wasn’t just optimism. It was intent. Choice.
I let my hand drop and pressed the box between our palms. Step by step, I tugged him deeper into the house, away from the door, away from the chance of anyone seeing us framed in the entry like a confession.
