Then he kisses me again—like the words broke something loose. Soft at first. Then deeper. Hungrier. Like the distance between us was a wound he’s trying to heal with his mouth.
His hands move with purpose, mapping my ribs, curling around my waist, gripping my hips like he’s afraid I’ll slip away again. His lips brush the corner of my mouth, then stop. He doesn’t kiss me—just hovers there, close enough that I can feel his breath when he murmurs, “God, I want you.”
Heat curls low in my stomach, spreading everywhere all at once. My skin hums beneath his touch. Every part of me sharpens and softens at the same time.
I want to say it back.
I want to tell him he’s not the only one unraveling right now. That my body has been waiting for this—this exact feeling—for years.
But it’s been so long since I let anyone this close. Since I let myself be seen.
Since I wasn’t just Lark the mother. Or Lark the one who kept the diner running. Or Lark who carried everyone else’s weight like it was mine to bear.
What if he touches me now and sees someone else entirely?
What if he doesn’t see that girl he used to know—the one who made him laugh, who he used to look at like she hung the stars? What if I don’t feel the same in his hands anymore? What if I’m too changed, too different—too tired?
Boone pulls back just enough to look at me, and it’s all there—every unspoken thought, every second he’s spent wanting this. Wanting me. His lips are swollen, breath uneven, jaw clenched like he’s holding something back—but his eyes say he won’t for long.
Then he grabs the back of my neck and pulls me into him like he can’t stand the distance for one more second. His mouth finds my throat, open and hungry, tongue dragging over my pulse before his teeth scrape against it.
“Please,” he murmurs into my skin. “Let me have you.”
It knocks the wind out of me. I’d forgotten what it felt like to be wanted this much. I let out a soft laugh, my breath catching in my throat. “Didn’t take you for the begging type.”
My fingers find the back of his neck, nails dragging lightly through the thick hair at his nape. He groans. Full-bodied. Desperate. It vibrates against my chest.
“You could have me on my knees, Lark.”
A shiver crawls up my spine, because I believe him.
And even worse? I want it.
His hand drags lower, slipping beneath the waistband of my sweatpants, past the edge of my panties like it’s the most natural thing in the world—like I’ve always been his to touch. His palm is hot, fingers rough as sin, gripping the curve of my ass with a low, guttural sound that rips straight from his chest.
It’s not quiet. Not controlled. It’s raw—unfiltered want, all tangled up in the way he holds me like he can’t fucking stand how long he went without this.
“Tell me where you want me to take you,” he rasps against my skin, his voice torn, like the need is clawing its way out of him. His mouth drags along my jaw, all heat and stubble and hunger. “Say the word, and I’ll put you there, baby.”
Then his lips drop to my collarbone, tongue sweeping slow and dirty across it before his teeth graze the bone—just enough pressure to make my legs tremble and my thoughts splinter.
My breath catches, sharp and involuntary. His hand slides across my hip, rough fingers dragging under the hem of my shirt, slow and certain, like he’s daring me to stop him.
Boone leans in, mouth brushing the side of my neck. “You want it here?”he says. “Or should I bend you over the kitchen counter and fuck you so hard you forget your own name?”
My knees go weak.
His mouth curves against my skin. “No? Then maybe I should take you to bed and ruin you properly, love.”
My head drops back, lips parting, my pulse slamming in my throat.
I find his ear, breath hot against it. “Then what the hell are you waiting for?”
A rough, broken sound tears from his throat—wrecked and primal—right before his hands grip under my thighs and haul me up like it’s nothing. One second I’m grounded, the next I’m wrapped around him, chest to chest, thighs locked tight around his hips like we’re already halfway there.
I yelp—more from the sheer force of it than anything else—my arms flying around his shoulders, fingers diving into his curls, clutching like I need something to hold onto or I’ll come apart midair.
He climbs the stairs like a man on a mission—like his body’s been waiting for this and now that he has me, there’s not a chance in hell he’s slowing down.
