Later that night, I ride home on the back of Cole’s motorcycle, both invigorated and tired, but also a little worried.
He’s going to put the moves on me when we get home. I just know it. I saw it in the melty way his eyelids fell at half-mast while he watched me dance. He waited for me for over four years, and he’s not the kind of man who goes without sex.
With a hand on the gas and the other on the clutch, he’s the epitome of power and seduction. That sounds so silly and girly, but I’ve always had this reaction to him. Like I’m sixteen all over again, crushing on a boy to the point of foolish obsession.
But that’s not all this is. Our love runs deep, enduring miles and years and even death.
I hug his broad back, relishing the proximity of his strength, his life. I love this man, and I want to show him with every inch of my body. But I can’t. Because Trace…
I stop myself at that thought and make a personal vow. When I’m with one of them, I won’t think about the other one, until which point I can’t help myself. Then I’ll know. If I’m longing for the one I’m not with, I’ll know which one I want more.
As we motor out of downtown, a light drizzle forms in the chilly air, hovering like a spook-white mist against the black sky, lifeless, motherless. I nuzzle into Cole’s warmth and remain there long after he shuts off the engine in my driveway.
“Danni?” His gravelly voice rumbles through me.
I snuggle closer. “You’re so warm.”
“I’ll make you warmer inside.”
“So will a hot shower.” I reluctantly peel myself off his body and head indoors.
We take turns in the bathroom, and I’m surprised he doesn’t suggest we shower together. Maybe this won’t be as hard as I thought.
I lie in bed, finger combing my wet hair and listening to the rattle of the pipes as he finishes in the bathroom. When the shower shuts off, I sit up and stare at the closed door to my bedroom.
We didn’t say goodnight, and it’s only nine o’clock. Will he go to the basement or try to seduce his way into my bed?
Nervous energy has me reaching for the drawstrings on my pajama pants. I double-knot them, as if that’ll keep him out.
Then I grab my phone, looking for a distraction. There’s a few missed texts, probably from Trace. I ignore those and pull up my playlist, selecting a mellow song on low volume.
As Lust For Life by Lana Del Rey trickles in the background, I close my eyes and sway to the melody.
I don’t know what I expected from spending the day with Cole. It’s too early to make a decision, but I feel more lost than ever.
No, not lost. I’m more certain about my feelings for him than I was this morning. Spending my life with rugged, sexy Cole Hartman would be as epic and passionate as I always imagined. No woman in her right mind would walk away from him.
I press my face in my hands and try to keep my emotions under control. I need time, and that’s okay. As long as he and Trace aren’t miserable, I can forgive myself for being indecisive.
A knock sounds on the bedroom door, and I whip my head up.
I’m going to open that door, and he’s going to weaken me with the look. The one I can’t refuse. And he’s going to smell clean and yummy with his hair all wet and tousled.
Shitty, shit, shit. I draw in a deep breath just as Lana launches into the chorus about taking off clothes. That won’t give him the wrong idea or anything.
I slide off the bed and crack the door wide enough to slip out. Then I shut it behind me and lean against the heavy wood before lifting my eyes to his.
Damn. The hallway is dark, but his gaze is darker. Shadowy black, like a mysterious cave, luring me in with its promise of dangerous thrills and reckless adventure.
Beads of water trickle along the grooves of his chiseled chest. I want to follow those glistening trails with my tongue, around his hard nipples, down the corrugated steel of his abs, and lower, below the low-slung waistband of his workout shorts. The material is so thin I can see the long hard shape of him jerking to be released.
“Are you going to bed?” He rests a hand on the doorframe above my head and angles toward me.
“Mm hmm.” My pulse kicks up.
“I want to taste you.”
My knees wobble. “Not on our first date.”
“Remember our last first date?” He bends closer, sliding his whiskered cheek along mine and whispering into the space beside my ear. “I was inside you the entire night. We didn’t make it to the bedroom until we christened every square foot of this house.”
My thighs quiver in memory. “It has to be different this time.”
“I know.” He eases back, just enough to look at me. Or rather, my mouth. “I’ll settle on tasting your lips.”
A kiss. That’s perfectly acceptable for a first date.
Except Cole kisses like he fucks—deeply, intensely, with the most fulfilling, raunchiest, kinkiest techniques known to man, and he does it with his soul engaged while stealing every hollowed-out corner of mine.
I might die if he puts his mouth on me. I’ll surely die if he doesn’t.
“Close your eyes.” He runs his nose alongside mine, his breaths warm and minty clean.
I let my lashes flutter downward, my fingers digging against the door at my back.
The first brush of his lips stops my heart. The second caress shocks my system into a vibrating funnel of blood and desire.
He tilts his head, pressing harder, deeper, parting my mouth and sinking his tongue. I tremble and pant, wrapping my arms around his neck and meeting every tantalizing rub and lick.
His mouth is made for this, designed and sculpted to bring a woman the kind of slow-burning pleasure that melts beneath the skin and lingers like a fantasy.
Bowing into and around me, he crowds so close I have nowhere to go. But I’m exactly where I want to be as he holds me on the cusp of madness in the cradle of his body.
We kiss for an hour and a minute, tangled in the fabric of eternity. My hands slide through his hair, over his shoulders, down his biceps, palming and scratching his pecs.
He’s hard everywhere, and the hardest part of him feels like an iron bar, jabbing against my stomach. He doesn’t grind. He’s just so big and close I feel every thick inch, like an urgent plea for entry.
Then he goes wild, feverish, sucking, nibbling, and making up for lost years. The door rattles in the jamb with the press of our bodies. A picture frame falls off the wall. Friction, skin burns, bite marks… Holy lordy, what a kiss.
Eventually he edges back and lets me catch my breath. Ghosting his lips along my jaw, he pauses at my neck.
“We’ll take it from there on our next date,” he breathes against my skin. “Sweet dreams, baby.”
Then off he goes, prowling toward the basement door and vanishing behind it.
I must be every shade of aroused, staring after him. God knows, I’m a hot wet mess between my legs.
Because that kiss was perfect. The kind of kiss I can’t live without.
My heart drums a battle of emotion as I worry about how long I can draw this out.
In my bedroom, I turn off the music on my phone and open the text messages.
Trace: I’m lost without you.
Trace: You are my smile.
Trace: I never thought love was worth fighting for. Until I met you. I'm ready for war.
Trace: I miss you.
The texts came over the span of the day, letting me know I haven’t been far from his mind. I feel an overwhelming need to soothe him, so I send a quick message.
Me: I’m tucked in for the night, alone and missing you, too.
Then I turn off the light and count my blessings. I’ve been alone. Agonizingly, helplessly stuck in the isolation of mourning and depression. I’m not in that place anymore.
As impossible as my love life feels right now, it could be so much worse.
The next morning, I’m up early, showered and dressed in yoga pants and a tank top before nine o’clock. I guess going to bed before midnight has its advantages. Or disadvantages, depending on how I look at it. Celibacy and curfews aren’t things I aspire for in life.
As I roll into the kitchen, the floorboards vibrate to the tune of something rude and destructive blaring from the basement. Cole and his punk rock racket. If there’s one thing I didn’t miss about him, it would be his taste in music. I mean, I can’t dance to it, so can it even be called music?