Page 61 of Philippa Flynn’s Year of Panic and Piracy

“And you know why I haven’t done it.”

I swallow, breathe, force myself not to stammer. “Maybe.”

“You do. You definitely do. But the alternative is impossible. So consider this your dare.”

I suck in a breath and hold it in my lungs. This isn’t happening. Is this happening? Now? Here? In the drafty foyer, on the floor, with my ragged peacoat and ugly knitted hat still on, its tasseled ties dangling past my shoulders, and with one boot on and one boot off, with the coffeemaker taking up more room than I do, with Dylan Harley Sterling kneeling before me, with his full lips and bottomless eyes, smoldering away in a cloud of devastating beauty?

Yes, I think. Yes, it is happening. Because I make it happen. I close the distance and press my lips to his. They’re warm and soft, parting just enough to fit against mine as I set my hands on his cheeks and draw him closer. It’s a sweet kiss. It’s an urgent kiss. It’s an everything kiss, so simple, but shaped by our mutual history into anything but simplicity.

Dylan growls against my lips, and the sound ignites me. I let my lips fall open. His tongue is already there. Heat and breath collide. Pressure. Strength. Desire. Need. A cresting wave that’s already crashing on the shore, driven too far and too long before it’s allowed to break.

A hand on my waist, through too many layers. Another on my neck, splayed wide as strong fingers dent my skin and drag me forward. I scoot onto my knees without breaking our kiss, drunk on the feel of his tongue against mine, his lips, his breath, the heat and want of him.

“Coat,” he says, and I’m so lost in him he has to say it again before it makes any sense. “Coat. Off. Now.” He gusts out a laugh against my lips. “Please.”

In an uncharacteristic frenzy, I toss aside my hat and flick open the buttons of my coat, wriggling out of it and letting it puddle around me. The instant it drops, Dylan’s arms are around me, and he’s sweeping me onto my back, kissing his way down my neck as my hands slide into his hair again and I wonder how I waited this long to know how it feels.

“What can I do?” he murmurs against my collarbone. “Tell me what I can do.”

“Anything. Oh my god. Anything. Everything. All the things.”

His shoulders shake with a silent laugh. In the next second, he’s tugging the hems of my sweater and undershirt up to plant a circle of slow, wet kisses on my belly. His scruff is ticklish on my bare skin but in a good way, a way that makes my stomach muscles tense as my hips shift upward. I’m vaguely aware that the carpet runner beneath me smells of mildew and the crystal chandelier above me is desperate for a dusting, but I only have half a second to register those impressions before Dylan wedges a knee between my thighs, grabs me by the belt loops, and yanks me against his leg, like he knows I need to press against something.

Like he knows I need to press against him.

I dig my hands through his hair as his kisses travel upward from my stomach, tracing lines around the edges of my boring cotton bra while he nudges my shirt and sweater out of his way with his forehead, his hands still gripping my belt loops, holding me against him.

I’m breathing fast. So fast. Arching into every kiss. Too eager to savor the moments.

Dylan pauses his kisses. “I don’t think I can be a patient lover right now.”

I shake my head at him. “I don’t care. I want this, too.”

“I haven’t . . . I mean, since my marriage.” His neck flushes, but he doesn’t look away.

I mask my surprise with a smile. All those sexy book covers. All the looks he gets at the market, the post office, the library, anywhere at all. I just . . . wouldn’t have guessed it.

“I’m going to tell you three things,” I say. “Do with them what you will.”

He nods, hovering above me, his expression a strange blend of want and worry.

“One, I have an IUD. Two, I’ve been tested, and I’m clean.” I pause there, waiting for another nod. When he gives it to me, I finish with, “Three, I think we’ve been patient enough.”

Slowly, like a winter sunrise, his dimples appear, and I swear, if I wasn’t already completely gone over this man, seeing him smile like this would tip me over any edge at all.

What happens next is not the kind of scene we’ve been attempting to write in A Siren Calls. We share no slow caresses. No long-held looks. We don’t tangle pristine white sheets and whisper sweet words about love, beauty, and perfection. Dylan unzips my jeans and yanks them down my thighs with my underpants. I flick open his belt and tug down his zipper while he slides a hand between my legs, swearing under his breath as his fingers come away wet. With a few seconds of awkward wriggling to get our jeans wrenched down low enough for me to open my thighs and for him to position himself over me, he meets my eyes, I gust out an unequivocal, “Yes. God, Dylan, yes,” and he fucks me, hard, on the foyer floor.

There’s no other word for it. There’s no other way I want it. It’s wild, untamed, and brutal in its relentless demand for release. We can be patient another time. We can learn how to tease out tiny gasps of pleasure. We can make it last. But this, this is hunger unleashed. And I’ve never felt more desire or more desired than in this moment, as he thrusts into me and I pulse around him and the world goes all the colors at once.

Chapter Twenty

I wake up in the yellow bedroom as the first hint of sunrise finds its way through the big bay window. The blue and white toile curtains are parted, as if they’ve been waiting to invite in the light. I’m naked and sore all over, but only my foot hurts in a way I don’t thoroughly enjoy.

Dylan’s curled up against my side, also naked, with an arm and a leg thrown over me. I love that he likes to be close while he sleeps. There’s so much trust and affection in his gentle hold. I try not to stir so I don’t wake him. I want to cling to this moment as long as possible. The moment when everything feels perfect and nothing has gone wrong yet. Already, a battalion of tiny fears is launching an assault. What if it was just one night? What if he retreats again? What if I decide the best choice for both of us is for me to take a steady academic job and leave?

I don’t want any of it to matter right now, even if I know that at some point, it might.

“Hey,” Dylan murmurs against my shoulder. I guess I wasn’t as still as I’d hoped.