Page 82 of At First Flight
"I am," I say, barely above a whisper. Then, after a pause I don’t expect, I say, "Which is terrifying."
He chuckles softly. "Because it means you might want to stay?"
I don’t answer. I don’t need to.
Another silence settles—thicker this time, fuller. He shifts closer.
"I don’t want to scare you," he says, voice low. "I know this wasn’t the plan. But I don’t want to go back to how things were. Not before you."
My throat tightens. I stare at the dandelions pushing up through the cracks in the driveway.
"I just need to know if I’m imagining thisthingbetween us. The real thing," he adds, softer still.
I meet his eyes. There’s fear there, the kind that send my heart racing. Hope, too.
My voice comes out small, honest. "You’re not."
And that’s the scariest part of all.
Later that evening, after the kids are asleep and the sky has shifted to the darkest shade of navy, I find myself in the laundry room folding towels. I can’t sleep. I can’t read. So I do what’s familiar—routine. Soft cotton, rhythmic motions. Domesticity as a distraction.
Dean appears in the doorway, barefoot, wearing a thousand-dollar rumpled T-shirt.
"Did you need something?" I ask.
He shakes his head. "No. Just… didn’t want to go to bed yet."
I hand him a towel. Our fingers touch, and the air thickens. Electricity sparks between us. I nearly drop the terry cloth into his hand in fear of it catching fire.
He’s watching me like he did that first night, like I’m something he wants but isn’t sure he’s allowed to reach for again.
"Lila," he murmurs.
My name sounds different in his voice, reverent, almost as if he’s cherishing it. He takes a step closer. Then another, closing the distance between us. There’s a question in his eyes, and for a moment, I feel that familiar hesitation rise in me—the urge to retreat and protect myself. But I don’t. I don’t step back. Instead, I take a small, deliberate step toward him, closing the gap.
His breath hitches slightly, and I can see the flicker of surprise in his gaze. I’m not pulling away, not hesitating. I’m choosing this, choosing him.
He slowly leans in as though he’s waiting for me to pull back, to change my mind. But I don’t. I let my body move closer to his, my heart pounding with the rawness of what I’m about to do. I meet him halfway, finally. His lips brush mine. Soft, then firmer. Confident. Familiar. This isn’t like last time—rushed, frantic, fueled by storm and adrenaline. This kiss is patient. Intentional. Every movement says I’m here if you are.
My hands find the hem of his shirt. His fingers ghost up my arms, then settle on my waist. We move in tandem, breath mingling, bodies aligning like we’ve done this a hundred times. Like we’ve been waiting to get it right.
He lifts me onto the marble counter, and I gasp, the chill biting into the backs of my thighs. He grins against my mouth, pressing kisses to the corner of my lips, then trailing them across my jaw and down my neck. His hands explore with purpose, firm on my hips, gentle on my thighs, until I wrap my legs around his waist, holding him to me.
His clothes slide away like silk, discarded in the hush of the laundry room. The low thrum of the dryer is a heartbeat behind us, and every shift of his hands, every graze of his mouth over my collarbone, over my shoulder, sends my pulse spiraling.
I run my fingers through his hair, tugging lightly, reveling in the soft sounds he makes when I scrape my nails down his back. His breath is ragged now, his restraint fraying.
His hands slip beneath the waistband of my shorts, teasing the elastic of my panties. My breath hitches, wanting, no craving, more. To feel the rough calluses of his fingers against my slit. He knows what he’s doing to me.
His name tumbles from my lips as I try to shift my body to get him closer to where I want. Where I need.
Dean’s eyes are dark, his voice low and full of promise. “You’ve been driving me crazy all day.”
I swallow hard. “I didn’t mean to.”
His smile is slow and entirely unapologetic. “You’ve been stealing my T-shirts, Lila.”
I open my mouth to respond, but it’s useless. Because he’s already crowding me, his hands settling on my waist like he owns the space between us. As if he’s been waiting for this exact moment to make good on all the tension simmering beneath the surface.
