Promise Me This: a friends to lovers, slow burn romance (Wilder Family Book 3)

Chapter 25

Ian took a few moments to join me, and I was glad. The sheer overwhelming fantasy of all of this made my head spin. The air had a sharp bite to it, and I let the blanket go slack around my shoulders so the cold might keep my senses sharp. Keep me from sliding headfirst into the impossibly tender, heart-rending atmosphere he’d conjured out of thin air.

Next to me on the railing, the sugary-sweet smell of chocolate reached my nose, and I glanced down at it, trying to decide whether I was willing to forgo the blanket in order to take a bite. At the sound of a door opening and closing gently, I sucked in a quiet breath.

Inside my chest waged a mighty battle.

One part of me—the rational thinker, the logical, sensible side of my brain—damn well knew that this wasn’t reality. He was giving me a gift, thoughtful and attentive to a degree that managed to make my heart stop. The gift was that he remembered. The gift was in feeling seen. That the things that mattered to me mattered to him.

It was the kind of gift a best friend gives you. There was no requirement that attraction or love or Thoughts or Feelings had to be attached. Gifts like this one came from a deep, intrinsic knowing of who the recipient was, and what would speak loudest to their heart.

It shouldn’t have been such a struggle, but it was.

Because the second part of me, louder and less rational, that felt starved for this kind of gesture, wanted to sink into it like a hot bubble bath. Let the warmth seep into my skin and muscles, allowing the sheer luxuriousness of the evening to wash away the long-neglected side of me.

The second part of me wanted to push the boundaries and see what lay on the other side. What a mighty battle it was.

The battle came in the form of a question, really. Was this romance? The kind of wooing that came on the pages of a book, crafted from the eager imagination of someone typing away on a computer? Or was it steady, faithful love, packaged neatly as a friendship?

As he came to stand by me, I couldn’t deny just how badly I was craving the first. It had been so long. The way he held me at the skating rink, pressed tight against that wall, different from the dark hallway, was the lighting of an unseen fuse. It was only a matter of time before something between us imploded.

And with the sweet smell of the cake, the warmth of the blanket, and the solid presence of him as he eased against the porch railing beside me, I made a quick gut decision.

The rational, logical side of me would stay silent, and I would let the fantasy play out. If the moment felt right, I’d push.

His gaze weighed heavy on the side of my face, but I kept my eyes out on the dark sky and the spindly trees that stretched as far as I could see.

“You haven’t had your cake yet.”

I smiled. “I was trying to decide whether letting go of the blanket was worth it.”

Ian nodded, then took his fork and speared a bite from his own plate, holding it up toward me. “Here.”

“Giving me your cake? That might be overkill in the perfect birthday situation we have going here.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “Does that mean you don’t want it?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” My chin rose in a beckoning gesture. “I definitely want it.”

Good Lord, the subtext had my face flaming. But I opened my mouth and leaned forward, allowing my gaze to rest on his while I closed my lips around the perfectly soft, fluffy, chocolatey cake.

Heavy, prolonged eye contact didn’t last long, though, because it was physically impossible to keep my eyes open when all that sugary goodness hit my tongue. My eyelids fluttered shut. The kind of flutter that happens in very specific circumstances.

When you slide into a hot tub with aching muscles.

When you curl up in bed after an eternally long day.

When you eat something you’ve been craving forever.

And normally, it was the eye fluttering that came hand in hand with a really great orgasm.

The moan that accompanied that bite kinda sounded like it was the last item on that list, and I couldn’t even be embarrassed.

“There has to be drugs in that cake,” I groaned. “Holy hell, that’s so incredible.”

Ian wasn’t smiling, but his eyes were bright with satisfaction when he took his own bite. His brow furrowed and there was this deep, delicious sound that came from the back of his throat that had my toes curling inside my fuzzy blue slippers.

That was also the kind of sound that was paired with orgasm-type experiences. Made me glad I’d decided to just roll with … whatever this was, and kick rationality to the fucking curb.

“Almost too sweet for me,” he said.

I cut him a sideways glance. “You bite your tongue. It’s glorious.”

With a wry smile ghosting over his mouth, Ian lifted the fork again with a quirked brow, and I nodded. He served me another bite, watching my mouth carefully as I licked frosting off my bottom lip and then swallowed.

He set the plate down and looked out into the yard. “So how would a famous author describe a night like this?”

“If I meet one, I’ll ask.”

Ian sighed, and if I looked at him, I was quite sure I’d catch him rolling his eyes. “Fine, I’ll play your game. How would a talented author describe a night like that? “ He leaned closer, and his breath smelled like chocolate. “And that’s me asking one, if you were wondering.”

Instead of giving a flippant answer, I closed my eyes and tried to distill all the big emotions into something concrete and easy to describe. Tried to hone in all my senses onto the parts of the moment that could be put into words.

If I was at my computer, I knew my brain might work just a little differently, picking up on the color of the sky, the sharp bursts of light where the stars punched through the velvety blue. I might be able to describe the faint aura of heat coming from his body next to me, tugging me like a magnet just to seek out that thread of comfort. And maybe if I was writing all this down, I’d have a chance to explain how my stomach trembled, dancing lightly with nerves and the bigness of the moment. Or how I felt when I saw what he’d done.

But I wasn’t at my computer, and it was far too vulnerable to try to say any of those things without the option of a delete button. Without the possibility of revisions before anyone else saw it. Speaking out loud, in the moment, was shining a spotlight on all the pieces of my heart that I’d never really shown, and I couldn’t entirely be sure that he, that we, were ready for that.

So instead of even trying, I took a deep breath and said the first thing that came to my mind.

“Almost perfect.” I opened my eyes and looked over at him. “That’s how I’d describe it.”

His jaw tightened briefly, and in the slice of light coming from the front windows, the chiseled features of his face looked darker and even more intense. His eyes were unreadable, and it made me feel like it wasn’t Ian.

Not my Ian, from all those years ago. Not the boy who gave me his coat or taught me how to drive a stick. Who bought me tampons from the store because I was too embarrassed to ask my mom and who never let me get away with anything. The Ian who sat with me when I cried and saw me drool on my pillow when we camped together junior year, and who knew I was more scared of snakes than spiders but never teased me with either.

This was Ian, the man. The one who made my stomach flip-flop. Who made my heart ache with his hidden thoughtfulness, and who made life better in a million ways that I’d never be able to count.

“Almost?”

At the sound of his voice, so perfectly deep, so deliciously low, my eyes wanted to do that fluttering thing again. The orgasm, good cake, lay-in-bed fluttering. But I kept them open and straight on him.

“There was one more thing that I said I wanted on my birthday,” I continued lightly. Then I gave him a little smile. “Do you remember what it was?”

The way Ian studied me in that next beat of silence had my heart hammering wildly under my ribs. There’d be no disappointment if he didn’t remember, but I wanted him to. I wanted this moment with him, just to see what it was like.

I’d spent so many days shoving down Thoughts and Feelings, and this little pocket of time on his front porch felt like a safe space to let them out again. Just for now. In the dark, under the moonlight, with no one watching, no one screaming that it was a horrible idea.

Slowly, he pulled out his phone, and on a deep inhale, he scrolled until he got to a music app. My eyes pricked with tears again, and when he set the phone on the railing and pressed play, I dropped my chin to my chest and let out a small laugh.

He turned, his face so earnest, his eyes searing into mine, and he held out his hand. “Will you dance with me, Harlow?”

A tear slid down my cheek before I could stop it, and I didn’t try to wipe it away. Jerkily, I nodded.

“The blanket might have to go,” he said wryly, and I laughed. Before we began, he stared into my face, using the edge of his thumb to brush the tear away. The pad of his thumb was rough with callouses, and it made my breath catch.

With his big hands, he pulled the blanket carefully off my shoulders, and it pooled onto the porch with a soft thump. Briefly, I shivered, but Ian’s hand curled over mine, his other sliding around my waist as he guided me against his chest wordlessly.

The hands we had clasped together, he tucked against his body, his thumb brushing over my knuckles as we swayed gently to the haunting melody he’d chosen. The ache in my chest blossomed into something impossible to ignore.

So I didn’t.

I committed everything to memory. The soft cotton of his shirt under my cheek, and the slight scratch of his beard where his chin rested on my forehead. The unbelievable warmth of his skin, the shift of muscles through his T-shirt where my hand lay on his back as he guided us in a slow circle.

We were suspended in some magic space, not the real world, not in a fantasy. An in-between that didn’t have definitions or labels or consequences. A place where I could sway in my best friend’s arms and not worry about what might happen next.

He tightened the arm around my waist, his fingers lightly dancing along the ends of my hair where it fell down my back. I shivered slightly, pressing my face into his chest and inhaling.

Where his chin rested on my head, I could feel that telltale tightening of his jaw, and it had me pinching my eyes shut. Even in this sweet moment, that battle still raged on. And I had a feeling that if I lifted my head to look him in the eye, I’d get my answer. Suddenly, I was terrified that I’d been wrong. So very, very wrong.

The song came to an end, but we stayed like that, a sway that could hardly be considered a dance. A dull ache stretched over my skin, something I wasn’t sure I could ignore. An insistent tug that wanted something else. Something more.

“Ian,” I whispered, tilting my chin up so I knew he could hear me.

He didn’t let me go right away, and I finally dared to look up at him. Ian’s eyes were closed, his brow furrowed slightly, like he was in pain. It shredded my heart, desperate to make that pain go away.

Slowly, I eased my hand from around his back and spread my fingers lightly over his cheek, cradling his jaw while my thumb brushed the skin above his beard.

“Thank you,” I said, imbuing those two meager little words with every ounce of my feelings. But it still didn’t feel enough.

Still, he didn’t open his eyes.

Push, I urged myself. Just one little one.

So I rolled up on the balls of my feet and pressed a featherlight kiss against the side of his mouth, just catching the edge of his lips with mine. Off-center enough that it could’ve been a mistake.

Being honest with myself was one thing, because I knew it wasn’t a mistake. But could I be honest with him if he asked? If he pulled away and laughed it off and asked what the hell I was doing.

Except he didn’t do those things.

His breath caught and his eyes snapped open.

We froze like that, and when he didn’t pull away, my heart went wild, knocking against brittle bones and a tight chest.

Was his heart doing the same thing? Did he feel like his insides could shatter if it beat any harder?

Just as I was about to pull away, swallow down the mortification of an almost kiss that was all in my imagination, he turned his head a fraction of an inch, brushing his nose along mine. It brought his lips over mine, hovering so closely that my skin buzzed.

I exhaled shakily, the hand cupping his face easing down to grip the fabric of his shirt and tighten into a fist.

It was all he needed.

Ian’s mouth slanted over mine, his lips firm and delicious, the groan he let loose from the wide expanse of his chest rattling me down to my toes. He tasted so good, his body was so big and warm and hard, and his hands were holding me so tight. I rolled up onto the balls of my feet again, opening my mouth the instant I felt the soft brush of his tongue against the seam of my lips.

A fierce storm roared through my bloodstream, fast and fierce and loud, demolishing everything in its path, all the things I thought before this kiss were buried in a single beat of my heart.

Then both of his hands were gripping my face, his fingers tangling into my hair as he tilted my head to a new angle. At the heat of his tongue licking against mine, my stomach curled, my breasts went heavy and aching, and a soft whimper escaped my mouth into his.

That whimper flipped some switch in his head, his lips devouring, body pressing, hands tightening as they moved to grip my body to his, so hard and strong and firm that it felt like my bones may shatter. I wanted them to. I wanted a bruise on my skin, something I could touch later and know this had happened. He stole the breath straight from my lungs, and I let him. There was no pausing, no slowing, not for me. Not to question a single bit of what was happening. Of what could come next, whether we should stop, or if this was the worst fucking idea we’d ever had.

My only thoughts were more, more, more.

And he gave it to me. More of the heat of his tongue, slipping, sliding, tangling with mine, more of the tug of his teeth in my bottom lip, more of the harsh pants of our breath because we couldn’t bear to separate.

It all felt permanent. The kind of alteration that wasn’t quickly undone. Like ink under skin or the severing of a limb.

There was us before this kiss, and us after.

That tugged another helpless mewling noise from my throat.

He swallowed it with a deep groan, backing me up a step until my back was pressed against the porch column. Twining my arms around his neck, I pressed my fingers into the shifting, hot muscles of his shoulders.

It was everything, this kiss. It was the kind that shrank the entire world to that one perfect moment, because his mouth on mine was a dream I didn’t know I’d never had. Every cliché I’d tried to avoid was spinning on a wheel in my head.

Fireworks, explosions, rearranged atoms, they were all present and accounted for.

But what I didn’t expect, as his lips pushed and pulled over mine, as I nipped at his bottom one and felt his hands tighten in my hair in a way that tugged goose bumps over my skin, was the sleek thread of terror at how good it all felt.

The same spike of adrenaline before someone jumped off a cliff, hooked into a measly harness with a single anchor holding them to safety. Still … they jumped. Despite the fear, despite the warnings, and in spite of all the ways it could go wrong, they made a decision to push off from safety.

But that didn’t negate the moment before when your heart stopped and your stomach flipped in on itself.

It couldn’t possibly be this incredible with him, could it? If the first kiss felt like this, then…

All signs pointed to minds being blown and neurons rewired to feature Ian Wilder as the sole carrier of all my best sexual fantasies.

That’s when I hitched a leg up against his thigh, one of his big, big hands gripped it, holding it in place, and he rolled his hips hard against mine, a harsh grunt escaping into my mouth that had my belly quivering.

As I registered the absolutely delicious, big shape of him pressing hard against my stomach—because God bless gray joggers—I saw stars. I didn’t want to simply kiss him, didn’t want this one small parcel of time on the front porch.

I wanted Ian Wilder to fuck me into next week.

Not because it had been so long for me, and the heavy weight of someone’s body pressing me into the bed sounded like the greatest present in the world, but because I wanted him. I wanted him.

My fingers dug into the shifting muscles on his back as he pressed me into that porch column, the sharp edge of it a delicious pain point splitting through all this heady pleasure. A grounding point that I held on to with both hands.

More importantly, I held on to him with both hands, no plans to let go until Ian did. And God above, I hoped he didn’t. One of his big hands, hot and hard, slid underneath my shirt, his arm banding around my waist, his palm and fingers curling possessively around my ribs, and I arched my back into his chest with a mewling sound that had his kiss taking on a hard, ferocious edge.

It was that edge—the sheer, relentless need blossoming between us—that melted away any reservations. There were no whispers in my mind of we shouldn’t or this is a bad idea or what will happen tomorrow, because the only thing left behind was a blindingly simple truth—this is what I was yearning for.

My heart beat wildly in my chest, some frantic winged creature in a cage, and I desperately wanted to set that yearning free. My hands itched to roam over his skin, but I anchored them at the back of his neck instead, tugging my fingers into the thick strands of his hair. The approving noise that escaped Ian’s mouth, a feral sort of growling, had me tilting my head to deepen the kiss, had me slipping my tongue over his in a soft, twisting motion that tugged our bodies tighter and tighter together without a sliver of space anywhere between us.

I pried my eyes open because I wanted to see this. I wanted to see if it was doing to him what it was doing to me, and from the corner of my eye, I thought maybe I caught movement inside the house. I didn’t pull away immediately, though, because Ian did this thing with his tongue against mine that made me very, very interested in what else he could do with it. Preferably between my legs. I was ready to climb him like a tree, my head spinning and spinning and spinning with how the universe expanded with this kiss.

And then through the front door, I heard, “Mom?”

He tore his body off mine in an instant, turning away and sinking into one of the porch chairs just as Sage opened the door.

“Hey, honey,” I said, and I was really proud of myself for not sounding as panicked as I felt because my insides were crackling dangerously with unspent energy. “We didn’t want to wake you, so we were having cake out here.”

She rubbed her eyes and nodded. “Can I cut myself a piece?”

My legs were made of rubber, but I took a slight step forward. “Do you want help?”

She shook her head. “No, I got it.” Then she glanced at Ian, who had his head in his hands, elbows braced on this thighs. “You okay?”

He sat up—hands laying inconspicuously over his lap—and gave her a reassuring smile. “Yeah, kid. Just a little tired.”

It was a good enough answer for her because she bounced back into the house, the door slamming behind her. I sank against the porch column again and set my hand over my racing heart.

“Holy shit,” I whispered.

When I’d caught my breath, I risked a glance at him, and he was watching me with an inscrutable look on his face. Wasn’t it always like that with him? The moments I wanted to know his thoughts the most were the moments he kept them completely locked down.

Ian stood, bracing his hands on his hips, and stared at the ground before speaking. With a sinking in my gut, I knew there’d be no more kissing, and I was probably going to hate whatever came out of his mouth next.

“I’m sorry, Harlow,” he managed, but his voice was tight with tension. “I shouldn’t have … I think we got caught up in the birthday thing, and…”

“Did we?” I whispered.

He looked away, the muscle in his jaw bunching. “I didn’t have to be so literal. I wasn’t … I wasn’t thinking.”

Slowly, I nodded, even though I could practically feel hairline cracks splintering over the surface of my heart. I didn’t look away from Ian, not until he brought his gaze back in my direction. There was so much in his eyes that my belly quivered. Regret. Heat. And damn him, he still looked like his heart was breaking.

“You’re my best friend,” he whispered, like he was pleading for me to understand something.

Like that was all the explanation necessary for why he needed to say sorry. Why he was standing out of reach. Why he was shutting me, us, out right now.

“And you’re mine,” I whispered back. There wasn’t really anything else to be said. Certainly not now.

It wasn’t time to push, and it wasn’t time to fight. I wanted to end this day well, and even if it held a strong bittersweet feeling, I could still manage that by walking away from this with my dignity intact.

So with a sigh, I bent down to pick up the blanket, then grabbed the plate holding my cake. Even though my ribs creaked dangerously, and a giant wave of terror threatened to eclipse the perfection of what had come before it, I managed a tremulous smile. “Thank you again, Ian. It was … everything I could have wanted and more,” I said honestly.

And before a single tear could fall and give me away, I went inside, leaving him sitting in the quiet, with only the blue velvet sky and the bright diamond stars as company.