Page 72 of At First Dance
I nod once because if I say more, I’ll say everything. I ease her foot to the floor, slowly sliding away my fingers. She doesn’t move for a beat, then sets the empty glass down, the soft click as loud as a promise.
“I should get cleaned up,” she says, glancing toward the cottage through the window’s dark pane.
“I’ll walk you.” My voice comes out rougher than I mean.
We step back onto the porch. The path forks—left to the house, right to the oak and her door. Two pools of light spillonto the gravel, gold halos almost touching. We stop at the seam where they don’t.
“Thank you, Rowan.” Her eyes shine, not with tears—something steadier. “For the knee. For… earlier.”
I tip my chin. “Anytime.”
She takes one small step backward into her pool of light. I stay in mine. Our shoulders almost brush where the glow overlaps. Her fingers twitch like she might reach across the gap. Mine do the same.
“Good night,” she says, soft as a secret.
“Night, Ivy.”
She turns, and I let her go the last few yards alone, the crunch of her steps fading under the hum of cicadas. I stand there until her porch light flips on and her shadow moves across the curtain. Only then do I breathe, slow and careful, like a man who knows the thing he almost touched is still right there, waiting.
My limbs are heavy, like they’ve absorbed all the heat of the flames we just fought. Or maybe I’m just carrying too much—too much anger, too much regret, too much want.
I toe off my boots and strip off the smoke-stained T-shirt, the collar stiff with ash and sweat. The muscles in my back pull tight when I reach for the hem. Everything aches, but not in a bad way. It’s the ache of being alive. The ache of coming close to something I’ve been too scared to want: Ivy Quinn. That damn woman with fire in her soul and a mouth that tastes like sin. I head straight for the shower, twisting the knob hard until steam pours out in thick curls. The mirror fogs up before I even step inside. The hot water hits my shoulders like a wall, searing and brutal. I close my eyes and let it burn. I need it to. Need to scrub away the scent of smoke. The feel of panic. The adrenaline. But I also need to forget the way her lips parted right before I barely brushed my lips against hers. The breath she caught inher throat. The quiet plea in her voice when she saidkiss melike it means something. Christ.
I brace both hands against the tile wall, water running down my spine in rivulets. My forehead drops between my arms.
It shouldn’t have happened. She was Crew’s. Sort of. n ot really. Butonce.The unspoken rule alone should be enough.
Except she came back.
Except she showed up at that fire like she belonged beside me. Like we were something worth fighting for.
And when she leaned in… God. My body knew hers before my brain caught up.
The flash of heat. Therightnessof it. I twist under the spray, jaw clenched so tight it aches. My chest heaves.
I want her. I haven’t let myself admit it—not fully.
But there’s no hiding it now. Not when I’m rock-hard under the water, pulsing with need.
It’s not just the way she looks—though, damn, I could lose my mind staring at her mouth alone. It’s the way she moves. The way sheseesme.
Like I’m more than a past I don’t talk about. Like I’m not broken in ways even I can’t name.
I imagine her stepping into this shower. The steam curling around her skin. Her hands sliding up my chest. Her voice low, whispering my name as she presses her curves against me.
I reach down, grip tight around the ache that’s been building since that kiss.
A breath escapes my lips.
It’s her face I see behind my eyes. Her breathy laugh. The way her lashes flutter when she’s nervous. The heat in her eyes when she dares me to close the distance as I wrap my fingers around my throbbing shaft.
I stroke slow and steady. Let the water drown out everything else. She’d be warm against me. Soft and sweet and strong enough to ruin me.
I’d push her against this wall, press my mouth to hers, trace every inch of her with my hands and tongue. I’d whisper all the things I’ve never said aloud—how I see her. How Iwanther. Not just in the heat of this moment, but in the quiet after.
In the mornings when her hair’s a mess and she wears oversized T-shirts and hums songs under her breath like she did in the cottage kitchen that first day.
My hand tightens, pace picking up.
