Page 98 of Dare to Hold
The closeness between us hums in the air like static. Every brush of his hand, every glance across the table, it’s like my body remembers how it felt to kiss him in the rain. How safe it felt. How electric. How seen.
And the longer we sit here tonight, the harder it is to pretend that I don’t want more of that. More of him.
I set my empty plate aside, and he does the same. When he leans back against the couch, I follow, scooting close until his arm wraps around my shoulder. I curl into his side like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
His fingers trail slowly down my arm.
I turn to face him, heart pounding. Our faces are inches apart.
Then less than inches.
I kiss him.
Soft. Sweet. Until it’s not.
He deepens it, one hand cradling my jaw, the other sliding to my waist. I melt into him, letting my fingers roam under the hem of his shirt. He’s warm. Solid. Familiar in a way that startles me.
My hand starts to tug his shirt upward, just enough to lift the fabric?—
But he stops me.
Gently, firmly, he takes my wrist and pulls back, just enough to break the kiss. His breathing is heavy. So is mine.
And in the quiet that follows, a flicker of something sharp twists inside me. Rejection. It sneaks in fast, before I can talk myself out of it. Before I can remember who he is and what he stands for.
Because every other guy in my past? They never said no. They never even hesitated. And some dark, bruised part of me whispers that maybe Gray’s hesitation means I’m not enough. Not pure enough. Not worthy enough.
I force myself to meet his eyes, searching for anger or disappointment—some confirmation of the lie curling in my chest. But all I see is restraint. Respect. A war inside him that has nothing to do with me and everything to do with God.
Still, the ache lingers. I swallow hard, pressing my free hand against my thigh to ground myself. Why does no feel like failure? Why does being honored feel so close to being unwanted?
I sit back, suddenly aware of what I was doing. “I…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”
He reaches for my hand, lacing our fingers together.
“Ivy,” he says softly, “you have nothing to apologizefor.”
I nod, but the heat in my cheeks says otherwise.
“It’s just…” I trail off. “This is usually the point where things go further. Where guys expect more. And I just assumed…”
He brushes a strand of hair from my face, his thumb resting briefly against my cheek. “You shouldn’t feel like you have to take your clothes off to feel loved.”
My throat tightens.
“A man of God,” he continues, “won’t need you to take your clothes off to see your beauty. He won’t make you guess his intentions. He’ll pray for you—without you asking. And he’ll never ask you to compromise.”
I stare at him, my heart absolutely wrecked in the best way.
“But you’ve…” I swallow. “I mean, you’ve been with someone before, right?”
He nods slowly. “Yeah. I wasn’t always following Jesus. But now? Now I’m saving myself for marriage. Not because I don’t want to—I do.” He gives a low laugh. “So badly. But I know it’s important to God. And to me.”
I exhale, relief and longing all tangled together.
“Ivy,” he says, cupping my face in both hands, “you have no idea how badly I want to. But I want to honor you more than I want to indulge in a moment.”
I blink back sudden tears.
