Page 126 of At First Dance
“You drive me insane,” I whisper against her lips.
“Good,” she murmurs. “I want you desperate.”
She drags her mouth down my neck, her breath hot against my skin, and I curse under my breath, bucking against her without meaning to. Her hips roll in answer, and the pressure is exquisite—denim rough, cotton damp between us.
“Ivy,” I grit, my voice ragged. “You keep doing that, and I’m not gonna last.”
“I don’t want you to,” she says, lips brushing my ear. “I want you ruined. Right here. Just like me.”
And she keeps going. Keeps moving.
My grip tightens on her thighs as the pressure builds, sharp and dizzying. Her breath catches. Her eyes flutter closed. Her mouth falls open on a gasp as her nails dig into my shoulders.
Then we’re both falling. She trembles against me while I groan her name through clenched teeth as I come hard in my jeans, her hips grinding slowly through the aftershocks.
It’s messy. It’s primal. It’s perfect.
We stay like that—hearts thudding in sync, foreheads pressed together, air thick with heat and honeysuckle.
Eventually, she exhales a breathless laugh.
“Well,” she says. “That was…”
“Yeah,” I rasp. “That was.”
She cups my face in both hands and kisses me again—slow and lingering, like she’s sealing something between us.
When she pulls back, there’s no hesitation in her eyes. No fear. Just Ivy, choosing me.
I run my hands up her sides, memorizing the feel of her.
The swing sways gently beneath us. The stars shine brighter above. And at this moment, I don’t care what the rest of the world thinks Ivy Quinn should be.
We’re both breathless and laughing on the swing when reality catches up to my ruined jeans and her wicked little grin. I scoop her up anyway. Inside, I hand her a warm washcloth and grab another for myself. We do a quick triage. I mutter, “Hell of a way to christen a porch,” as she kisses the apology off my mouth. In the bathroom, we bump hips at the sink, share the mirror, and brush our teeth like we’ve done it a hundred times—her in my T-shirt, me in clean boxer briefs. Then we kill the lights and slide under the covers, her back tucked to my chest, my palm spread over her stomach while the house goes quiet around us.
Because I know exactly who she is.
Mine.
The morning creeps in slow, warm light spilling across the hardwood floors of the kitchen. It’s the kind of quiet that doesn’t weigh on your chest—it settles around you like a favorite blanket. Soft. Familiar. Home.
I pad barefoot through the house, still tasting sleep on my tongue, and there she is—barefoot in the kitchen again, in one of my old hoodies. The same one she wore that first morning after everything changed. Only now, she looks even more like she belongs in it.
The opening hangs off one shoulder, hem brushing her thighs, and her blond hair’s still tangled from sleep, but she’s moving like she owns the place. Pouring coffee. Humming something soft under her breath.
I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, just watching her.
This—this is what I never let myself want. The easy mornings. The stolen glances. The girl in the kitchen who knows where everything is and doesn’t need to ask.
She glances up and catches me.
“Morning,” she says, voice still raspy, one side of her mouth lifting in a sleepy smile.
“Morning,” I echo, stepping toward her, one hand dragging through my hair. “You always hum a new song in the morning?”
“Only when I’m not worried someone’s gonna sneak up on me.”
I slide an arm around her waist, tugging her closer. “You didn’t seem all that surprised.”
