Misbooked for Love

Chapter 13

13

CLARA

The night air is crisp and biting as we step out of the restaurant, a shiver running down my spine despite the warmth still lingering from our dinner. Tom’s hand finds the small of my back again, steadying me as we navigate the icy path back toward the villa. The snow crunches beneath our feet, and the world around us feels quiet, like it’s holding its breath.

We walk in a comfortable silence, the kind that doesn’t need filling, and every time I glance over at him, he’s looking at me with this soft, almost disbelieving smile that sends my heart racing. The town glows under the soft, muted lights of streetlamps, and everything feels magical, like we’re the only two people in the world .

“Did you have fun?” Tom asks, breaking the silence as we approach the steps to the villa. He’s got that lopsided grin again, the one that makes me feel like he’s genuinely happy, like this isn’t just another night out.

“I did,” I admit, feeling the warmth of his hand through my thick coat. And it’s the truth. “More than I thought I would.”

He raises an eyebrow, mock offended. “Hey, I can be fun, you know.”

I laugh, rolling my eyes. “I never said you couldn’t.”

We reach the door, and for a second, I hesitate. The night could end here, neatly tied up with a polite goodnight and a friendly wave. It would be the sensible thing to do—the smart thing. But there’s something about the way Tom looks at me, the unspoken promise in his eyes, that makes me linger.

He unlocks the door, and we step inside, the villa’s warmth enveloping us immediately. I kick off my heels, feeling the familiar tug of uncertainty pulling at my mind. This is usually the part where I second-guess myself, where I make an excuse to leave before things get messy. But tonight, I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to overthink. I just want to be here, in this moment, with him.

Tom slips off his coat and hangs it on the rack by the door, his movements slow and deliberate, like he’s stalling for time. He turns to me, his gaze lingering a little too long, and I can feel the tension between us, electric and charged.

“Do you want a drink or something?” he asks, his voice quieter than before, like he’s not sure if he should even be offering. “Or…I don’t know.”

“I’m good,” I say softly, taking a step closer to him. There’s barely half a meter of space between us now, and I can feel the heat radiating off his body, pulling me like a magnet.

We’re standing in the middle of the living room, the soft glow of the fireplace casting shadows across his face. I can see every line, every contour, and there’s a tenderness there that makes my heart ache. This man, who I barely knew less than a week ago, feels like something familiar and foreign all at once.

“Tom,” I whisper, but I don’t know what I’m about to say. All I know is that I’m caught between wanting to hold on and wanting to let go, and he’s the only thing anchoring me.

He reaches out, his hand brushing against my cheek, and the contact sends a shiver through me. “Clara,” he says, his voice low, almost reverent. “I…”

Whatever he’s about to say is lost as I close the gap between us, pressing my lips to his in a kiss that feels like it’s been building for days. It’s slow at first, tentative, both of us testing the waters, but then his arms wrap around me, pulling me closer, and everything else fades away.

I can feel the steady thump of his heartbeat against my chest, and it’s grounding, reassuring in a way I didn’t expect. His hands move to my waist, sliding up my back, and I lose myself in the taste of him, the way he sighs into the kiss, like he’s been waiting for this just as long as I have.

We stumble back, knocking into the coffee table, and I let out a breathless laugh, the sound breaking the intensity of the moment. Tom grins against my lips, and there’s something playful in his eyes, something that makes me want to keep going, to see where this will take us.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, but there’s no real apology in his voice. He’s not sorry at all, and neither am I.

“Don’t be,” I whisper back, my fingers threading through his hair. “Don’t you dare be.”

We move together, inching our way toward the massive couch, our kisses growing more urgent, more desperate. Tom’s hands are everywhere—cupping my face, skimming down my sides, holding me like he’s afraid I might slip away. I feel alive, every nerve ending tingling with the thrill of being this close to him, of finally giving in to what’s been simmering between us.

He sits down on the couch, pulling me onto his lap, and I straddle him, my dress hitching up as I press closer. His breath is warm against my neck, and I arch into him, my fingers digging into his shoulders as he trails kisses along my collarbone.

“Clara,” he murmurs, his voice thick with want. “Tell me if this is too much.”

I shake my head, my own breath ragged. “It’s not. I want this, I want you.”

The admission feels big, too big, but it’s the truth. I want him, every messy, complicated part of him. And for tonight, and maybe the rest of this trip, that’s enough.

We move together, our bodies finding a rhythm that feels natural, like we’ve done this a thousand times before. His hands are firm on my hips, guiding me, and I can feel the tension building between us, a tight coil ready to snap.

I kiss him again, deeper this time, pouring every ounce of need into it, and he responds with a fervor that takes my breath away. It’s all heat and urgency, a clash of lips and tangled limbs, and I can’t get enough.

Tom’s fingers slide under the hem of my dress, skimming the skin of my thighs, and I shiver at the contact, leaning into his touch. It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before—this mix of tenderness and desire, of wanting and being wanted.

“You’re so wet,” he whispers, his voice low and gravelly in my ear, and my cheeks flush. I should be embarrassed, but instead, I feel empowered. Brazen, even. This is what it’s like to be with someone who truly sees you, I realize. “Fuck.”

He slides a finger inside me, and I moan, arching my back and pressing myself against him. Tom’s touch is reverent, slow, like he’s exploring every inch of me, memorizing the way I feel, the way I taste. I cling to him, my nails digging into his back as the sensations building within me grow stronger, more insistent.

“Tom,” I gasp out, my voice barely above a whimper, and he groans in response, his pace quickening. Heat pools between my thighs, and I know I’m close, so close.

Tom’s kisses trail down my neck, over my collarbone, and over my breasts as his other hand slides up my waist, tracing a path up my chest, sending shivers down my spine. His touch is electric, making me feel alive in a way I never have before. My body responds to his touch unpredictably, writhing under him as he circles his hips, thrusting his fingers deeper and harder. I grip his shoulders tightly, my nails digging into his skin as I try to hold on to this feeling; it’s as if I’m flying above the surface, no landing in sight.

My breath hitches when I feel a second finger glide effortlessly into my core, stretching me further than I thought possible. He cups one of my breasts over my dress, his thumb rubbing gently over my nipple, sending sparks of pleasure throughout my body .

“You like that?” Tom rasps, his breathing heavy in my ear.

I cry out, arching my back, begging for more. He answers by thrusting his fingers in and out of me in a rhythmic motion, drawing out my pleasure until it’s all-consuming.

My breath comes in ragged gasps as I feel myself spiraling towards the edge. And then, with one final hard push, I’m overcome. I scream Tom’s name as my body shudders with the force of my orgasm, my walls gripping his fingers tightly as if they’re all that’s keeping me grounded.

Panting heavily, I collapse against him, feeling boneless and unsure of what just happened. But he isn’t done yet. He lifts me up in his arms, wrapping my legs around his waist and flying up the stairs until we’re in the bedroom, kicking the door closed behind us. He lays me down gently on the bed, and before I can gather my thoughts, he’s kissing me again, his lips demanding and possessive.

And they are everywhere—my neck, my shoulders, the curve of my hip—and I arch into him, my hands roaming over the expanse of his toned back, feeling the flex of muscle under my touch. I want to memorize every inch of him, every sigh and shudder, every whispered “Clara” that slips from his lips.