Page 130 of At First Dance
I exhale sharply. “Fuck, baby…”
Her hands are already working at the hem of my shirt, sliding it up, over, gone. She leans in, chest pressing against mine, heat blooming between us like a live wire.
She kisses my jaw. My neck. Down my shoulder.
Her rhythm is slow. Intentional. Not rushed like the last time. This isn’t need. This is choice. Worship.
She grinds against me again, the thin cotton of her shorts the only barrier between her heat and my growing hardness. With deft fingers, she unbuttons my jeans and slips my erection free of its confines, pushing the edge of her shorts to the side as she guides me inside her slick core.
My hands slide up her back, down her sides, around her thighs. I kiss her like I’m starving for it because I am.
The porch swing groans with each shift, each roll, and I don’t care if the whole damn world hears it. Let them. She’s here, and she’s mine.
Her breath hitches, and I know she’s close. So am I. The pressure is maddening, the friction just right.
Ivy moans against my mouth, and I lose it.
My release crashes through me, teeth clenched, muscles straining as I bury my face in her neck and hold on. She gasps—then follows—hips trembling as her body arches into mine, perfect and powerful.
We stay like that for a long time. Tangled. Breathing hard. Sweating under the stars.
She kisses my jaw and laughs, soft and low as I rip my T-shirt off and use it to clean between her legs.
“I think the swing survived.”
I chuckle, chest still tight. “Barely.”
She rests her forehead against mine. “Next time, bed?”
“Definitely,” I groan.
She climbs off me slowly, body sated, cheeks flushed. She dashes inside, then returns in a blink. She reaches for her notebook and pencil, and curls up beside me again like she never left.
And when she starts humming again—soft and low—I swear, the rest of the world fades to black.
Just us. Just this.
Just Ivy writing her next song under the summer sky.
Chapter Twenty-five – Ivy
Coral Bell Cove’s public park smells like funnel cake and sunscreen and melted ice cream. Like the perfect end-of-summer night wrapped in sticky sweetness and the hum of cicadas. Music plays softly from the park’s speakers, some old country tune that makes you want to sway barefoot in the grass with someone you love. Laughter floats from the kids racing between picnic tables, and the air is thick with heat, joy, and the faint twang of anticipation.
And nerves. God, I’m vibrating with them.
“You good?” Rowan’s voice rumbles beside me, warm and calm and so steady it makes my chest ache.
I nod, then immediately shake my head. “I think I’m gonna throw up.”
He chuckles, his palm sliding low on my back, grounding me. “You’ve performed in front of thousands. You’ll be fine.”
“This is different.” I glance up at him. “They know me here. Or… they know you. Us. It’s not stage lights and backup dancers. It’s your mom handing out lemonade and Lila helping kids on the pony rides.”
“And that terrifies you more than a sold-out arena?”
“Terrifies me differently,” I mutter.
He tilts his head and brushes a strand of hair off my cheek. “You’ve already won them over. They’ve watched you collect eggs and sweep the barn and comfort kids when they scraped their knees. They’ve seen the real you.”
