Page 129 of At First Dance
The swing groans softly under my weight as I settle in, leaning back and stretching one arm across the top of thecushion, the other hand around a cold glass of sweet tea. I can still taste the sugar on my tongue and still feel the warm ghost of her hand in mine.
A few minutes later, the screen door creaks again.
I glance up, and the air leaves my lungs.
She’s barefoot, her legs bare, wearing nothing but one of my button-down flannels, with the sleeves rolled up. The hem hits just below the tops of her thighs. Her damp hair curls at the ends, falling over her shoulders. She’s holding something in her hand.
Her notebook.
My chest tightens.
She walks toward me slowly, like she’s not even sure she’s doing it on purpose. Like her body just… knows where it belongs now. She eases down beside me, curling one leg under the other, the notebook resting in her lap. She flips it open, pencil tapping against the edge of the page.
For a while, she doesn’t speak. She just hums.
It’s not the same old tune. It’s new. Softer. A little wistful, a little wild.
I don’t interrupt. Don’t even move a muscle. I watch her—watch the way her lips part slightly as she sings under her breath, the way her eyes skim the page like she’s chasing something only she can see. That fire I thought she lost? It’s flickering again, low but steady, catching wind.
She pauses.
Glances up at me.
“I think I’m ready to finish it,” she murmurs.
I nod, voice low. “Which one?”
“The one I started on the plane,” she says, tilting her head toward me. “The one I sang the day I came back.”
I smile, and she nods but doesn’t look away.
My body tenses under her touch. Not from discomfort—hell no—but from the unbearable sweetness of it. The way she always knows how to unravel me with something so simple.
“I’m not hiding anymore. I chose you over and over again,” she says, leaning in.
I turn, meeting her mouth in a kiss that starts soft but deepens instantly. There’s no urgency. No firestorm. Just a slow, steady burn that climbs higher with each pass of her lips.
She shifts, swinging one leg over mine to straddle me.
My hands slide automatically to her hips, steadying her. Her thighs bracket mine, warm and strong, and the swing creaks beneath us as she settles.
“This okay?” she murmurs against my mouth.
I answer by kissing her again—deeper this time. My tongue sweeps slow and deliberate until she whimpers.
Her hands find my shoulders, slipping beneath the collar of my T-shirt, fingers tracing down my back. She rolls her hips once—gentle, teasing—and I grip the swing chain beside me to keep from losing it right then and there.
“Jesus, Ivy…”
“Say my name again,” she whispers, breath hot against my jaw.
“Ivy,” I growl, pulling her tighter. “You feel like fire.”
She grins, teeth grazing my throat. “I feel like yours.”
That does it.
I lift her slightly, just enough to push the shirt she’s wearing higher. She helps, shrugging out of it without fanfare, leaving her bare to the warm night air and me.
