Page 18 of The Placeholder
The sauce bubbles gently, releasing aromatic steam into the air. I stir it once, twice, then set the wooden spoon down and move around the island toward her. I can’t help myself. That kiss in the foyer broke something open inside me—a dam I’d been carefully maintaining.
I step between her knees, my hands finding the soft curve of her waist. The heat of her skin radiates through the thin fabric of her dress, igniting something primal in me. She looks up, those incredible hazel eyes darkening as they meet mine, her lips parting slightly in invitation. I lower my head slowly, savoring the anticipation, until my mouth claims hers. She tastes like wine and possibility—sweet, complex, intoxicating. Her tongue brushes mine, tentative at first, then bolder, and a low groan escapes from deep in my chest. When I finally pull back, her cheeks are flushed pink, her breath coming in small, quick gasps that make her chest rise and fall in a rhythm that threatens what little self-control I have left.
“The sauce,” she murmurs.
“It can wait,” I tell her, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
I take a deep breath, inhaling the mingling scents of simmering tomatoes and her perfume. “Della, I know this is premature. We’ve only known each other for a few weeks, but I’m falling for you. Hard and fast.” The words tumble out, my voice rougher than intended, the admission scraping my throat raw. My pulse hammers in my ears as I expose a vulnerability I’ve armored against sinceAfghanistan. “I’ve never been one to dawdle when I know what I want. And I want you.”
Her eyes widen slightly, hazel irises catching the amber glow from the pendant lights above us, but she doesn’t pull away. Her fingers tighten around her wine glass, the delicate tendons in her wrist flexing beneath skin I want to taste.
“When I set my mind on something, I’ll move mountains to get it,” I continue, my voice dropping to a growl as I lean closer until I can see the constellation of freckles dusting the bridge of her nose. The scent of her—vanilla and something uniquely Della—fills my lungs, making my chest expand. “But I need you to know what you’re getting into. I don’t do casual. If we’re going to do this—” I gesture between us, the space crackling with electricity, my calloused fingers briefly grazing the soft skin exposed by her neckline, “—I need to know you’re in it for something real. Because that’s all I’m capable of giving.”
Della sets her wine glass down with a decisive clink and places her hands on my chest. I can feel my heartbeat hammering against her palm, the steady rhythm of a man who knows exactly what he wants.
“I want that too,” she says softly, her pupils dilating as they lock with mine. “No games, no pretending. I’ve had enough of that to last a lifetime.”
Relief washes through me like a warm tide. I cup her face in my hands, my calloused thumbs brushing across the delicate curve of her cheekbones. “I don’t play games, Della. Never have, never will. What you see is what you get with me, darling.”
Her smile is radiant, transforming her entire face, crinkling the corners of her eyes. “I like what I see.”
I kiss her once more, savoring the softness of her lips, before reluctantly returning to the stove, rescuing the sauce before it reduces too much. The rich aroma of garlic and basil fills the kitchen as we move around each other in a comfortable dance—her hips brushing mine as she reaches for plates, my hand grazing the small of her back as I slide past her to drain the pasta. Steam rises in fragrant clouds as I finish preparing our meal—al dente linguine glistening with the ruby-red tomato sauce, a simple arugula salad dressed with lemon and pepper, crusty sourdough bread still warm from the market’s bakery, its golden crust crackling beneath my fingers as I tear it.
Over dinner at her small maple table by the window, with the city lights beginning to twinkle like earthbound stars outside, the glow of candles casting amber shadows across her features, I find myself opening up in ways I rarely do.
My father was military,” I tell her, twirling linguine around my fork, the glossy strands catching the candlelight. “Army Ranger. Sixth Battalion, 75th Regiment. He died when I was ten, in a training accident at Fort Bragg. Parachute malfunction.” The memory still comes with the scent of rain-soaked earth and the scratchy wool of my too-large suit at the funeral.
Della’s hand reaches across the maple table to cover mine, her skin warm and soft against my calluses. Her hazel eyes shimmer with empathy in the golden light. “I’m so sorry, Axel.”
“It was a long time ago,” I say, though the hollow space beneath my ribs never fully closes. “After that, it was just my mom and me in that three-bedroom colonial with the peeling blue paint. She sometimes worked three jobs—waitressing in the mornings, office cleaning in the evenings, and weekend shifts at the hospital laundry. Refused to move us from Oakwood because Lincoln Middle had the advanced math program I loved.” I shake my head, remembering her bone-deep exhaustion, the way she’d fall asleep still wearing her white orthopedic shoes, the smell of disinfectant clinging to her faded scrubs. “She sacrificed everything for me.”
Her eyes catch the candlelight like amber whiskey. “She sounds incredible.”
“She is,” I agree, feeling a swell of pride warm my chest. “First thing I did when I made real money was force her into retirement. Bought her a cedar-shingled lake house in the Poconos, where she lives with my aunt, her sister. It was always her favorite place. They go kayaking at dawn when mist still clings to the water, spend afternoons with binoculars pointed at warblers and cardinals, and host book clubs where they serve her famous lemon squares. She deserves every minute of it.”
Della’s eyes soften, the hazel flecks in them dancing in the golden glow of the flame between us. “You’re a good son.”
“I try to be.” I refill her wine glass, watching the burgundy liquid swirl and catch the light. “What about your parents? You mentioned your mom’s cancer—is she still in New York?”
As Della tells me about her family—her mother’s recovery after grueling rounds of chemo, her father’s retirement to a coral-colored condo in Sarasota, her older brother, Felix, the financial wizard—I find myself drinking in every detail, filing them away like precious artifacts. I want to know everything about her — from childhoodscrapes to college dreams — the entire tapestry of experiences that shaped her into this remarkable woman sitting across from me, her fingers absently tracing the rim of her glass.
After dinner, we settle on her couch to watch a film she’s been wanting to see. The movie is barely twenty minutes in when I feel the weight of her body shift against mine, the soft press of her breast against my ribs as she turns. Her hand lands on my thigh, fingers splayed just inches from where blood rushes hot and insistent. I capture her mouth with mine, tasting wine and desire on her tongue. The sweet jasmine scent of her perfume hits me like a drug as I drag my stubbled jaw down the column of her throat.
“Axel,” she sighs, her voice breaking around my name in a way that makes my cock throb against my zipper.
I grip her hips with hands that could span her waist, lifting her effortlessly onto my lap. Her knees bracket my thighs, sundress riding up to expose skin I want to mark with my teeth. The weight of her against my hardening length is exquisite torture. I palm the curve of her ass, fingers digging into soft flesh as I guide her against me, growling low when she gasps.
“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” I rasp against the hammering pulse at her throat, tasting salt and sweetness on my tongue.
Her hips rock against mine in a maddening rhythm, the pressure against my hardened length sending electricity through my veins. I slip my calloused hands beneath the hem of her dress, conquering new territory—the silken heat of her thighs, the delicate lace barrier of her underwear already damp against my fingertips. She tugsat my shirt with hungry determination, and I tear through the buttons, muscles flexing as I shrug the fabric from my broad shoulders.
Her eyes darken to storm clouds as she runs her hands over the hard planes of my chest, fingertips exploring the topography of scars earned in combat. When she lowers her head to press her soft lips against the jagged reminder of shrapnel near my collarbone, a primal growl escapes my throat.
With tremendous restraint, I grip her hips in my large hands, stilling her movements with gentle dominance.
“Della,” I command, my voice a rough gravel road of desire. “If we don’t stop now, I won’t be able to stop at all.”
She looks at me with those incredible eyes, now heavy-lidded with want, her pupils blown wide and dark. “Who says I want you to stop?”
