She kissed him.
THIRTY-EIGHT
DAHLIA
Slow. Sweet. A question asked and answered in the press of lips, the soft slide of tongues, the way his hands came up to cradle her face like she was made of spun glass.
Dahlia tasted butter and possibility on his lips. She leaned into him, letting herself fall, letting him catch her. Her fingers found the hem of his shirt, brushing against the skin beneath, and Cal made a low sound in the back of his throat that sent electricity racing down her spine.
“Dahlia.” Her name was a prayer on his lips. “Tell me to stop.”
“No.” She kissed him again, harder. “Don’t stop.”
He hauled her into his lap with effortless strength, her thighs bracketing his hips, her hands braced on his shoulders. The position pressed them flush—heat to heat, heartbeat to heartbeat—and Dahlia felt him harden against her, wanting her with an intensity that made her dizzy.
His hands slid up her back, beneath her shirt, fingers tracing the line of her spine. She arched into the touch, gasping against his mouth. Every point of contact felt electric—his palms on her skin, his lips trailing from her mouth to her jaw to the sensitive spot beneath her ear.
“I want—” She couldn’t finish the sentence. Couldn’t think clearly enough to form words.
“I know.” His voice was rough, strained. “I want it too. More than I can say.”
He stood in one fluid motion, lifting her with him, and Dahlia wrapped her legs around his waist instinctively. Two steps had her back against the counter, his body a wall of heat and muscle between her thighs. She pulled at his shirt, needing to feel more of him, and he broke the kiss long enough to yank it over his head.
The bandages were still there—white gauze wrapped around his ribs, covering the wounds that had nearly killed him two days ago. Dahlia traced them with gentle fingers, watching his jaw tighten.
“Does it hurt?”
“Right now, I don’t care.” But he caught her hand before she could explore further, bringing her fingers to his lips. “Not tonight.”
Dahlia’s pulse hammered. “What?”
“Not like this.” He rested his forehead against hers, both of them breathing hard. “I want you. Desperately. More than I’ve wanted anything in longer than I can remember. But not in a rush. Not when we’re both half-mad with exhaustion and covered in flour. When this happens—” He kissed her quietly, a promise. “—I want to do it right. I want to take my time. I want to give you everything.”
The oven timer chose that moment to go off—a shrill beep that shattered the charged silence.
They both laughed, foreheads still pressed close, bodies still tangled in the aftermath of interrupted passion.
“Croissants,” Dahlia murmured.
“Croissants,” Cal agreed. He stepped back reluctantly, retrieving his shirt from the floor and pulling it back on. Thebandages disappeared, but the memory of them lingered. “To be continued?”
Dahlia slid off the counter on shaky legs. “Definitely. But, Cal?”
He paused, looking back at her.
“I’m going to hold you to that promise.”
His smile went dark with anticipation. “I’m counting on it.”
The croissants were imperfect.
Lopsided, with uneven layers and a slightly burnt spot on one corner where they’d been too distracted to rotate the pan. But they were golden and flaky and still hot from the oven, and when Dahlia bit into one, butter melted across her tongue in a rush of simple pleasure.
They sat on the flour-covered floor again, shoulders pressed close, passing croissants between them as the clock crept toward 4:00 a.m. Cal ate like a man who’d forgotten food could be enjoyable—closing his eyes at the first bite, making a sound of satisfaction that shouldn’t have been as attractive as it was.
“These are incredible,” he said around a mouthful.
“They’re mediocre at best.” But she was smiling. “The layers didn’t develop properly. Too much handling.”
