Page 107 of At First Flight
And just like that, the distance between us evaporates.
I reach for her hand, our fingers finding each other like they’ve done it a thousand times. Maybe all those quiet mornings and late-night laughs have been adding up to this quiet pull between us.
“I’ve never had someone do that,” I admit, my voice rougher than I mean it to be. “Stand in front of me instead of behind me.”
She shifts closer, the couch cushion dipping beneath her weight. Her hand squeezes mine.
“You’re not someone who needs rescuing, Dean. But you do need someone who sees you.”
I swallow hard because her words feel like a hand around my heart.
“I see you,” she adds, softer now.
I’m not sure what makes me move first—her eyes, the way they’re shining in the low light, or the fact that I feel safe enough to want something for the first time in years. Need something.
But I do move. And she meets me halfway.
Our kiss isn’t rushed. It’s not fireworks or frantic hands. It’s slow and deliberate. A conversation we’ve been having in pieces since the day we met. Her hands slide up into my hair, a spot I’m learning is her favorite. Mine find her waist, steady and careful. She tastes like tea and something sweeter underneath, something uniquely Lila.
I deepen the kiss just a little, testing the boundary. She doesn’t pull away. If anything, she presses closer. I breathe her in. I could live in this moment.
Her sweater slides up under my hands as I trace the dip of her back, and she lets out a soft sound—half sigh, half need—that makes my pulse spike.
We stand together, still kissing, and I guide her back to my bedroom.
The room’s dim, lit only by the lamp on the nightstand and the occasional flicker of lightning through the window.
I watch her as I peel off my shirt. Her eyes roam my chest, not like she’s impressed, but like she’s curious—hungry. She reaches out and traces a line over my shoulder, a tiny scar from years ago.
“You always carry everything, don’t you?” she whispers.
“Not tonight.”
We undress each other like we’re unwrapping a secret—slow, reverent. When I finally slide her sweater off, revealing soft skin and flushed cheeks, I have to take a moment.
“Lila…” My voice breaks on her name.
She steps in, kissing me harder this time. Her hands are bolder now, finding the line of my jaw and the muscles in my back.
The air thickens with heat and something fragile. I want to consume her. I want to cradle her.
We collapse onto the bed in a tangle of sheets and limbs. Her skin is warm beneath mine, her mouth opening for me, her body arching in perfect rhythm to mine. And when I reach down,dragging my fingers along the inside of her thigh, she gasps and murmurs my name like a vow.
I pull back just enough to look her in the eyes. Her breath hitches as she reads my mind. But she obeys. Fingers wrap around the slats, and I see her eyes flutter closed, surrendering not just to me but to the moment, to everything we’ve built without saying a word.
I take my time. Every kiss. Every touch. Every slow, deep thrust is an unspoken promise. She doesn’t have to wonder where she stands.
She’s here with me.
When we finally fall over the edge together, it’s not wild or messy. It’s deep. Anchored. The kind of connection that leaves you breathless and brand new.
Afterward, she curls into me, her head on my chest, fingers tracing lazy circles on my skin.
Still coiled against me, her leg tangles with mine, her breathing slow and even, one of her hands rests on my stomach like she forgot to move it. Or didn’t want to.
Her hair is wild. Her lips are parted. She looks like something holy.
And I… I don’t know how to stop wanting her.
