Page 29 of Strings Attached
He kisses me, soft and slow, then offers a sad smile. “Thank you for caring. But, you don’t know my sister. It’s impossible.” Before I can protest his lips are on mine, gentle still but urgent. “Besides,” he whispers against them, “she’s not who I’m wanting to talk about right now.”
There’s a part of me that wants to press him for more about his sister. But the heat that pools in my body at his touch, the electric sizzle that seems to spark between us entirely drowns out that voice.
I kiss him instead. It turns deep and urgent. His hands slide down my curves and my fingers explore his shoulders then find his sweater’s hem. I hesitate for just a moment before slipping my hand under, savoring the warmth of his skin.
He inhales sharply at my touch, his muscles tensing then relaxing under my fingertips. The sweater lifts away like a whispered crescendo, revealing a lean, muscled torso. My breath catches as I take in the sight of him. Dean’s always handsome, but like this—hair mussed, eyes dark with wanting, chest rising and falling rapidly—he’s breathtaking.
“Missy,” he breathes against my neck, his voice as rough as I’ve ever heard it. “Are you sure? I know I set this up in here but we don’t have to if you don’t want?—”
“I want to.” I’ve never felt more sure of anything. “Please, Dean.”
The sound he makes against my skin resonates through me like the lowest note on Giuseppe’s strings. His hands map my body with reverent precision, each touch an exploration of dynamics—soft then urgent, gentle then demanding as he peels clothes away. When our eyes meet, the intensity in his gaze steals my breath. I’ve seen that look before, during the storm when thunder cracked around us and lightning painted his features in stark relief. But there’s no storm to blame for the electricity crackling between us, no thunder to drown out my racing heart.
His fingers trace the curve of my neck, like he’s memorizing sheet music. His lips follow, and I arch into his touch, wanting more. The way he holds me—like I’m something precious yet unbreakable, makes me feel both powerful and vulnerable. My hands find their way to his hair, gripping, and the sound he makes vibrates into my skin.
“Wait,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my temple before reaching for his wallet. Even this moment feels charged with meaning—his care, his protection.
Then we’re creating our own symphony, every touch an arpeggio, every kiss a crescendo. The twinkle lights cast their spell across his skin, turning our private concert into something sacred. His hands map my body like he’s discovering a new instrument, learning which touches draw sighs, which caresses make me gasp.
I’ve performed in the world’s greatest concert halls, but nothing has ever felt as perfectly orchestrated as this—the way we move together, the rhythm we create, the harmonies we build. At this moment, there’s no need for precision or technical mastery. Just the pure music of two hearts finding their shared melody.
Later, wrapped in blankets and starlight, reality seeps back in. “I should go soon,” I mumble. “Before Alex worries.”
Dean pulls me closer but sighs against my shoulder. “You probably should.”
“Dean…” I hesitate. Swallow. Force myself to be brave and say the words. “I can’t keep pretending this is just…”
“I know.” His arm tightens.
“It’s complicated, I remember.”
He’s quiet for a long moment and I match my breathing to the waves. Before he speaks again, he presses a kiss to my shoulder. “If I asked you to trust me, to give me some time, and I promise I’ll explain everything—would you?”
The lights dance across the beaten walls. I nestle my face into the blanket’s warmth and breathe in Dean’s cinnamon and salt scent, letting the familiar mixture settle my racing thoughts. Trust has always been complicated for me. I’ve spent so many years being what others needed, measuring my worth in perfect performances and meeting expectations. But Dean… Dean sees past the polished exterior to the messy, uncertain woman beneath. He’s never asked me to be anything but exactly who I am.
“Yes,” I whisper, surprised by how easily the word comes. Like the natural resolution of a complex chord progression, like finding the perfect note after searching through endless variations. “I can do that.”
As we dress, his hand lingers on my cheek with a tenderness that has me holding my breath. For the first time, I let myself imagine building a future here—not just with Dean, but in Magnolia Cove. Teaching music, writing my own songs, creating something true.
We part ways as always—walking back on separate paths. But tonight, something shifts in me like a key change in a familiar melody. I turn back, drawn by an impulse I don’t resist, and find him still standing in the gathering dusk, watching me go.
The way he looks at me—unguarded, longing, real—mirrors everything that thrums through my skin. We’ve crossed some invisible threshold, moved beyond the realm of stolen moments and secret smiles into something deeper.
The composition of us has shifted—evolved into something too powerful to contain in mere snippets of stolen time. There’s no more pretending this isn’t changing us both.
Dean
The autumn spice cookies weigh like stones in their box, each step toward the planetarium a study in controlled panic. Mom’s care package had arrived this morning—her continuing to reach across the divide I’d created. The scent of cinnamon and clove wraps around memories of home, reminding me of simpler times filled with pillow forts and shared laughter. Back before magic kindled our destruction.
Now magic sparks differently. It hums beneath my feet with each step, responding to thoughts of Missy in ways that defy every law I’ve spent years mastering.
Yesterday, I’d asked the council’s permission to share our truth with Missy—with Margaret Sinclair, that was. I’d maintained my carefully constructed mask of detachment all while my heart thundered treacherously within my chest. I’d already told Missy I’d give her the truth. What if they didn’t agree?
I’d laid the arguments out logically: she had an extended stay which she was bound to repeat in the future, her sister already knew, and she was a person with unusual sensitivity to magicalenergies. My voice never wavered. Yet, Eleanor had winked at me when she’d voted in favor.
“Some humans handle the truth well,” she’d said after the meeting finished and I had permission. “Look at Alex.”
But Alex had discovered magic through Ethan—had fallen in love with him before learning what he was. Missy… Missy already has one foot out the door, another tour on the horizon. She’s ignoring those things, but I’d be foolish to discount them. To not recognize that her time here has an expiration date. Missy isn’t her sister. She probably wouldn’t choose to stay. Frankly, she’s too talented to waste it here. Even if she isn’t satisfied with her current career, another path will open. And I don’t doubt she’ll walk it.
