“When I was seventeen, I thought I’d be dead.” He chuckles dryly. “Or in jail. Or just… gone,” he says it so matter-of-factly, like he’s talking about the weather.
“And now?” I ask.
“Thanks to you, I’m close to going to jail again.” We both laugh at that, and I want to save the sound in a seashell.
“What? Why?”I ask, chuckling.
“I can be a little possessive.” He grins, and my heart shouldn’t flutter at that statement, but it does.
“I know the feeling. I thought I’d be dead by now, too.” And I cringe at my own vulnerable confession.
He glances at me, something sharp in his deep blue eyes. “Do you really?”
“My brother was the golden child. I am the shadow…forgotten…in my own jail.”
The words slip out before I can stop them. “After he died, it was like Mom could only see me in the outline of what was missing. Her grief consumed her. I can’t blame her, though.” I return my attention to the glistening pool at a distance, hoping it’ll drown the pain.
Joe props himself up on one elbow, studying me. “Sara, I’ll always remind you, baby, you’re nothing like a shadow,” he says, touching my hand tentatively. His thumb traces the faint scar at the base of my wrist, and my entire nervous system goes electric.
“Why do you have these little scars?” he asks, running his finger over the mark. I shrug, too embarrassed to admit my anxiety gets the best of me at times.
“My dogs.”
He tracks my expression, unconvinced, but luckily, he doesn’t pry for more.
“Do you ever wish you could freeze time?” I ask shyly, surrendering to my chest squeezing.
Joe’s voice is soft. “Yeah, when I’m with you.”
His words send my heart racing again. Resting on my elbow, I try to appear calm, gently brushing my hair away while being careful not to move the hand his fingers are tracing circles on it, but it's hard to contain the storm inside me and I draw closer to him with my leg hiking up against his. His face slowly inches up to my neck as our bodies touch in a whisper.
“You smell so good.” He inhales me, and my hand reaches into his hair with an adoring stroke.
His face gleams and just as my soul begs, he leans into me and kisses me, depriving my lungs of air.At first, it’s the press of our lips, dragging the kiss so carefully for a taste. It’s slow and adoring until something turns hungry, as if he’s been holding his breath and I’m the only oxygen left. I wrap my arms around his neck and allow his tongue to ravage me. It feels incredible, tender, and yet impatient. His hands slide down my back, burning a trail down my spine, and he grips my waist until I completely melt against him.
I can recall exactly each time my feelings for him grew, how I’ve yearned for his touch, to smell him, to taste him, and it’s lighting up every nerve in me. We fall back onto the grass, still attached to each other, and the world disappears, time stops, everything quiets. There’s only the warmth of his body; nothing belongs to me besides this, him, right now. Nothing else. A reprieve from the weight I carry with the permission to feel a connection I so desperately burn for.
The weight of his strong build shifting over my body is equivalent to a feeling of safety I’ve chased.His fingers dig into my thigh and gently brush up around my shorts, and the dizzy thud of my rapid pulse takes me into a spell. For a second, he pulls away to look at me. His magnificent blue eyes have never looked so dark, possessed, untamed.
“Okay?” he whispers, voice ragged, and I acknowledge him silently as I bring him closer.
I’m more than okay. His lips reach my collarbone, nibbling at my skin, and I lose track of time.
When he breaks off, his chest is heaving, and he gently grabs my face in his hands.
“I really fucking care about you.” His words rattle a darker part of me. I wanted to hear him say this.
I want to say it back, but I’m nervous. He pulls me to him, and beneath it all, he holds equal restraint, wildness, heat, and God, that scent. Lavender, but not soft or floral. It’s sharper, cleaner, masculine. One that screams into my nervous system that I'll think of him long after he's gone.
I kiss him again. “Are you ever afraid of wanting things?” I ask, meeting his eyes.
His jaw tightens. “Yes, wanting things means losing them.” He rolls to his side, pinning me underneath, and there’s an ache in his eyes.
“You know what happens when you need someone, Sara?” He tilts his chin up, searching my face. “They leave.” The finality in his tone is a ghost I’ve known too well. It should scare me, but it propels a sudden courage to reassure him.
“I’m not leaving,” I say, my hand tracing his jaw.
He holds my gaze as if he understands and yet is unsure if I mean it. I mean it enough that I grab the front of his shirt, pull him in so close that I can taste every unfinished word he hasn’t said yet. When he kisses me this time, it’s not measured, he grabs me rougher, pulls my hair so my mouth tilts closer to his, like he can’t get enough. His other hand finds the curve of my hip, and I arch against him, wanting more, more, more. The force of my insatiable desire silences my turbulent emotions, and the mere thought of never getting tonight back terrifies me, suspending me in time.
