I never thought I’d be the one pushing for more. Practically begging. Wanting more than I should.
But it’s reckless and it’s exciting and it’s almost enough to drown out everything I’m pretending not to feel.
I throw on the flannel Iborrowedfrom Lane over a tight, short black dress. It hangs loose off my shoulders, soft and worn, and smells like him—smoky sandalwood and soap.
I don’t know if the whole guys-like-it-when-girls-wear-their-clothes thing is scientifically proven, but I just like the way it feels.
Instead of the scuffed boots I’ve been trudging around in, I pull on my black velvet thigh-highs and a pair of sheer tights. Probably overkill for a small mountain-town restaurant, but this is our first date. And I want to look like someone worth breaking rules for.
When I open the door, Lane’s standing there with a small bouquet of flowers clutched in his hand—uneven, bent stems and clashing colors. Perfectly imperfect.
“I wasn’t sure what you liked,” he says, a little sheepish, like he’s second-guessing if this was too much. “So I grabbed all the ones that reminded me of you.”
My heart flutters. Actually flutters.
I take the flowers and smile up at him. “They’re perfect. Thank you.”
He nods and reaches out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear—gentle and brief, but I feel it everywhere.
He walks me to the truck and waits until I’m inside before shutting the door and circling around. When he climbs in beside me, the familiar opening chords of a Sleep Token song start playing.
The song.
The one that was playing the first night we kissed.
Heat climbs my neck, flooding down to my chest. Blooming from the memory of his hands on me. I wonder if he remembers. If he chose it on purpose.
From the small, knowing smirk tugging at his mouth—I think he did.
This outfit was planned with that exact memory in mind. There is nothing about this dress that is going to cockblock me tonight.
Lane’s hand finds my thigh as he drives, thumb tracing slow circles over the sheer fabric.
I sink my teeth into my bottom lip and look out the window, but my body betrays me, leaning into his hand.
I want him to pull over. I want him to press me against the truck door and kiss me senseless.
But he doesn’t.
He keeps driving, calm and steady, like we have all the time in the world—and he knowsexactlywhat he’s doing to me.
A long forty minutes later, he finally turns down a winding paver-stone driveway. The trees part to reveal a stone-and-cedar lodge with gleaming black windows reflecting the fading sunlight, like they’re holding onto the day just a little longer.
It’s stunning. Rustic and modern at the same time. Quiet.Private.
I glance over at Lane. He’s already watching me, smiling like he’s been waiting for this exact moment all night.
“Where are we?” I ask as he pulls into a small lot off to the side.
He shifts into park and flashes that devastating smile.
“Stay right there,” he says, voice low and commanding.
Before I can reach for the handle, he’s there—pulling my door open and offering his hand. I take it without hesitation, grinning like an idiot. His fingers weave through mine as he leads me up the wide stone steps.
“You haven’t answered my question,” I say, looking up at him.
“What question?”
