Page 91 of At First Flight
After the kids are asleep, we sit by the fireplace in the dark. Neither of us talks. Not at first. The storm outside mirrors the one still boiling inside me.
Her hand is a warm reprieve as she touches my knee.
“I hate that he can still get to you,” she says softly.
I sigh. “He’s always gotten to me. That’s the problem.”
She turns toward me fully. Her legs brush mine. Her voice drops. “You’re not him.”
“I know. But that doesn’t mean I don’t wonder—why nothing I’ve ever done, or do, is good enough. It’s not like I can change my mother’s mistake. It wasn’t my fault that all I ever wanted growing up was his approval… his love.”
Her hand slides over mine warm and steady. “You’ve done more than enough. You’redoingit. Every day.”
I look up. Her eyes shimmer from the firelight, wide and open and so damnpresent. I’m not used to people staying like this. Not when things get hard. Not when I’m cracked open.
And maybe it’s the way her hand tightens in mine. Maybe it’s the way her body leans into me like she belongs there. Or maybe I’m just done pretending I don’t want her in every way a man can want a woman.
“Lila,” I say, voice low.
She doesn’t speak, doesn’t have to. She leans in and presses her lips against mine. Not a tease. Not a maybe. A kiss that demands an answer.
I give her one.
Her lips part, and that first taste of her tongue punches the air from my lungs. It’s soft—unexpectedly soft—but it hits with the weight of every long look, every accidental touch, every silent what-if we’ve been avoiding since the first day she moved in. It’s like the first kiss in the kitchen all over again.
I pull her closer, the slide of her mouth making it impossible to breathe right. Her hands cup my jaw, thumbs brushing just under my ears. There’s no rush. No fire yet. Just a slow build, a deep ache of something long denied.
But it’s there.
God, it’s there.
The want, the heat, the simmering pressure of holding back too long.
My hands find her hips, her waist, her lower back. She lets out a sound—half sigh, half groan—and melts into me. Her body aligns perfectly against mine, like we’ve done this a thousand times before, like weshould’vedone this a thousand times before.
Her mouth moves to my neck, soft, exploratory. I grip the back of her shirt to keep myself anchored, but it’s not enough.
“You drive me crazy,” I whisper, forehead pressed to hers.
Her lips curve. “The good kind of crazy?”
“Always,” I murmur, voice thick. “I’m so fucking crazy for you.”
In one motion, I stand, taking her with me, and her legs wrap instinctively around my waist. She lets out a soft gasp, clinging tighter, her hands in my too long hair, tugging just enough to make me unable to hold back as I seal my lips with hers.
We crash through the hallway to my bedroom like we’re escaping something. Or maybe heading straight into it. Frames rattle. A small lamp falls onto the floor from where it’s placed precariously on a console table.
She kisses me like she needs this to breathe, and I kiss her like she’s the only thing that’s ever made sense.
When we reach the bed, I set her down gently, but her fingers tug at my shirt before I can pull away. I help her strip it off, and her hands trace my chest like she’s memorizing it for science, cataloging muscle and scars as if I’m her newest research project. The way my heart stutters when she touches certain spots should be documented.
I yank her shirt over her head next and pause, just for a second. Because she’s beautiful. Not just in the obvious way. But in the way she watches me watch her. In the way she trusts me tolook.
She arches slightly under my gaze. “Are you just going to stand there?”
“Yes,” I say, hoarse. “Unless you tell me to touch,” I add, reminding her of the previous challenge.
She reaches for my hand and places it directly over her breast. Her heart is beating so fast I can feel it against my palm.
