Page 46 of Forever Flames: Padraig & Stevie
When I step off the escalator, my suitcases bump behind me as I weave past families holding signs and couples crashing into each other with duffel bags and wide-eyed grins. I scan the crowd, pulse in my ears, searching for the one person I’ve craved every single night since I left.
And then—
There he is.
Leaning against a column like the whole airport’s background noise. Black jeans slung low on his hips. Boots beat to hell. Long charcoal hoodie layered under his ancient, cracked leatherjacket. His hair is even longer than it was in June, brushing past the sharp lines of his cheekbones, over his shoulders.
Wild and stupidly perfect.
Padraig’s fingers tug at his bottom lip until his eyes find mine. Everything in him stills as I approach. He lifts a white, crinkled paper bag. I recognize the logo. Café Besalu. I know what’s inside. An almond croissant. My favorite since we were thirteen.
Everything inside me explodes.
For half a breath, I can’t even move. He crosses the short distance between us in long, purposeful strides. Then he’s in front of me and I’m enveloped in his arms. The croissant hits the floor. My arms wrap around his neck and I bury my face into his shoulder.
His arms cage me, one hand grips the back of my head, the other flattens against the small of my back.
“I missed you.” I breathe in his scent. “God, I missed you.”
His nose skims along my cheek. “I’m so happy you’re home. You look and smell amazing.”
“Oh.” I laugh. “New clothes. Swiss shampoo.”
His mouth finds mine. Hot. Desperate. Our lips smash together. His tongue slips in like he’s starving and I’m the only thing he wants to taste. It’s messy. Public.
I don’t care.
He breaks away first. “Let’s get the fuck outta here.”
Ten minutes later, Padraig lugs my suitcases behind him and we weave past the crowds in record time. Outside, it’s raining of course and colder than I expected. He yanks open the back of the band’s van, sticker-bombed from the tour, and tosses my belongings inside. We get in and he peels out of the parking garage.
We don’t talk much on the drive, not because there’s nothing to say. We’re too busy stealing glances. Caressing each other. Hishand stays on my thigh the entire time, thumb tracing over the fabric of my slacks like he’s relearning the shape of me.
I’m surprised when he steers downtown instead of taking the exit toward Capitol Hill toward our families’ neighborhood. Seattle glows under the magic of a million holiday lights. Soft gold and silver strands strung from awnings and wrapped around trees.
When he pulls into valet at the W, I blink in happy surprise. “Seriously? You booked a hotel?”
“We’ve been apart six months. I’m not spending tonight sneaking into your childhood bedroom trying not to wake your parents when I fuck your brains out.” He glances over and winks.
A beat passes. Electricity surges through my body. “Okay, then.”
He hands the keys to the valet and leads me through the glass doors with unshakable purpose. Low ambient music pulses beneath the soft hush of voices in the lobby. Evergreen garlands drape the front desk, velvet ribbon threaded through golden pinecones. The scent of fir, leather, and something faintly spiced lingers in the air.
He checks us in. Confident. Calm. Focused.
Watching him, I burn. I want to crawl inside his coat, press my face to his chest, and revel in this moment. Strip away every polished piece of the woman I’ve become and return to the high-school girl who used to curl against him under the sheets as we learned how to please each other.
He palms the keycard, pulls me close and we’re on the move. My cheek brushes his collar. Air stretches tight between us, thick with memory and need. Our time apart collapses into seconds.
The doors open to a long, muted hallway. Gold sconces flicker against dark walls. He finds our room and slides the key against the card reader. We step inside. Rain streaks the windows insilver ribbons. Exposed brick glows in the lamplight. A king bed waits in the center. Turned down. Untouched.
Not for long.
We stand there. Then I move. Or, maybe he does.
In any case, we collide. Mouths open, breath stolen. His hands grip my waist, then lift as his palms flatten over my ribs, my back, my hips. Each touch greedy and grounded, like he’s desperate to confirm I’m real.
My fingers dig into his jaw, along his shoulders, then tangle in the long strands of the wavy hair I’ve dreamed about for months. Feeling him. Breathing him. Loving him.
