Page 38 of Well Played

“I know.” He’s waiting for me with such patience that I want to either cry or fling myself at him. I wanted him before I knew him but back then it was me falling in love with an image. Now that I’ve met the man, he ticks all my boxes. Why should I deny us at least reaching for happiness and love?

“I’m not immune to you. I felt something that day when you came for Charlotte. Even though you barely spoke to me, I felt something between us. Then at the Park Run, I felt a connection. I don’t invite men to my home. This is my safe space and I never give out my address.”

Bronx cups my face and we are standing toe to toe. I could relax into him and feel his strength, or I can stay upright. I’ve already said my piece. I need to hear that he’s in this with me. But when his fingers stroke my cheek, I moan, “Oh, Bronx.”

“I don’t believe in love at first sight, but I believe in instant connections—and we have it. I don’t believe in coincidences, but I hadn’t decided on where to go for a Park Run until I arrived at the ground.”

“I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw you.” Is there a thing as me being too honest, too soon? But the way I feel when Bronx looks at me, I want him to know that he’s more than my fantasy coming to life—he’s more than my student’s father—he’s Bronx, and I’m Willow, and we can be whatever he wants.

“I couldn’t believe my luck when you wanted me to run with you. If you hadn’t held my hand and dragged me to the starting position, this might not have happened.”

“What’s happening?” I ask, breathless. We’ve weighed up the risks, and Bronx is worth it.

“I want you. I want this. I want to see how far this thing between us can go.”

I place a hand on his chest and the butterflies inside my heart do cartwheels and backflips. He is a wall of muscle with the softest looking lips.

I have no words, so I answer him with a kiss.

FIRST KISS

Bronx

They saythat forbidden love tastes the sweetest because it’s forbidden.

They say that wanting what you shouldn't have makes the thrill of the chase part of the desire.

But standing in Willow's kitchen, I don't think about any of those things. All I think about is how much I want to kiss the woman who has consumed my thoughts since I first saw her.

She is all shades of wrong and we’ve just listed why we shouldn’t but I can’t obey the logical side of my brain when my heart is pounding so hard I think my ribs will break.

I can’t make the first move. It has to be Willow’s choice to make.

When she places a hand on my chest, I’m still cupping her face and watching her eyes change with swirls of gold joining the turquoise. My heart pounds as her soft breath warms my soul and when she drags her lips between her teeth, leaving them moist and glistening in the dying sun rays, I do the same.

“Oh, Bronx,” she whimpers, and my body stiffens in fight or flight mode. I don’t want to hurt her. I don’t want her to start something with me that she’ll regret tomorrow. But when her lips touch mine, reality shatters like glass.

The only thing that matters is the hunger of each kiss, the way her body drapes over mine, and the way she feels in my arms.

As each kiss intensifies, her hands roam my chest at will and I struggle to keep our hips apart so she can’t feel my erection. Her hands cup my pecs and travel down each of my abs and I suck my stomach in, wanting to impress her, only exhaling when she starts the trip north, again.

My fingers tangle in her hair until the elastic tie gets in the way. It takes both hands to release her hair, and then she’s mine.

Needing her in my arms, I spin her around, hoist her onto the kitchen bench, and stand between her spread legs.

“Bronx, oh, Bronx,” she purrs in between kisses and I can’t remember the last time I felt this way about a woman. This kiss is like New Year’s Eve fireworks—each time I think we’ve reached the end, Willow detonates me again.

I’ve never wanted a woman, more.

I’ve never wanted to take one kiss and use it to build a lifetime. Call me naïve or inexperienced, but I can’t even compare this kiss to the decades with my ex. Kisses had become perfunctory at best and minimal viable product at worst.

Willow. Willow’s kisses open my heart and soul, exposing a rawness I didn’t think I had.

“Willow, Willow, Willow.” Each time I say her name, I slow the kisses until we can pull away. Only I don’t release her waist and her arms remain linked around my neck.

“Mmm,” she purrs, pressing her cheek against my chest. “You kiss better in real life than you ever did in my imagination.”

“I don’t know how to respond to that,” I start, only to be saved by the oven timer.

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