Chapter 20 Woody
TWENTY
Woody
Holiday emotions.
The phrase echoes in my head like a bad joke. Is that really what she thinks? That I'm caught up in some seasonal Hallmark bullshit? That what just happened between us was nothing more than Christmas lights and nostalgia?
My jaw locks so tight my teeth grind. "Fuck that," I mutter, hitting the turn signal harder than necessary.
Instead of heading home, I turn right at the stop sign and loop back through the circle to her house. Her neighborhood is quiet, most windows dark except for the glow of Christmas decorations.
Multi-colored lights blur through my windshield as I take another right back toward her street. My thoughts race faster than my truck, which is going too fast for a residential area.
This isn't some temporary insanity brought on by jingle bells. This is seven years of wanting her back. Seven years of regret. Seven years of wondering what could have been if I hadn't been so goddamn obsessed with proving myself at the hospital.
I make another turn, pulling onto her street again.
She's been running from this, from us, for years. And I've let her. I've respected her space, played by her rules. Co-parented from a safe distance.
Not tonight. Not after I saw how much she was fighting what was right in front of her.
My tires crunch against the gravel of her driveway before I even realize I've made the decision to return. I kill the engine, the sudden silence deafening. My heart hammers against my ribs as I climb out, slamming the door behind me.
I take the porch steps two at a time, ignoring the voice of reason in my head telling me to turn around. For once in my life, I refuse to take the easy route.
My knock is sharp, almost defiant. Three rapid hits that echo my pulse.
I wait, seconds stretching into eternity. What if she doesn't answer? What if—
The door swings open, and the sight of her punches the air from my lungs.
Lane stands barefoot in black leggings and an oversized sweater that slips off one shoulder, her hair loose around her face. She's wiped away her makeup, leaving her face bare and vulnerable. Her eyes widen when she sees me.
"Woody, what are you—"
I don't let her finish. I put a finger to her mouth. "This time I'm going to do the talking."
The light from a single lamp in her entryway catches the gold flecks in her hazel eyes, wide with surprise at my return.
Lane stands frozen, her lips parted slightly.
The soft curves of her face without makeup hit me harder than any memory.
This is Lane stripped of all her armor. This is the woman I've known since we were barely adults.
Not the careful co-parent who is always put together and leaves no question about our respective lanes.
For a second, we just stare at each other, the only sound our uneven breathing.
"I won't keep walking away," I finally say, the words tearing from somewhere deep inside me. Not planned. Not calculated. Just truth.
Her breath catches, something crossing her face. It could be fear, recognition, desire? I can't distinguish the difference, but I know it isn't resolve. When I step forward, she doesn't back away.
The distance between us vanishes. My mouth finds hers, rough and unrelenting. She gasps against my lips, and I use that moment to move us further inside, my foot kicking the door shut behind us. The slam echoes through the quiet house.
The kiss deepens, urgent and wild. Seven years of pretending we're nothing more than Sanders' parents ignites between us. Her fingers clutch at my shirt, bunching the fabric as she pulls me closer. I press her against the wall, my hands sliding into her hair, soft and familiar between my fingers.
"Woody," she breathes against my mouth, not a protest but a recognition.
The world narrows to nothing but Lane, the soft scent of her skin, the small sound she makes when my teeth graze her bottom lip, the heat of her body against mine.
Every boundary we've carefully maintained since the divorce crumbles. Every excuse disappears.
I lift her with one fluid motion, and her legs wrap around my waist, instinctive and perfect. Her arms lock around my neck as we crash into the heat we've both been running from for too long.
The wall supports her back as I press against her, no space between us anymore, no more distance, no more pretending this isn't exactly where we both want to be.
Lane's lips break from mine, and she draws a ragged breath. Her hazel eyes, blown wide with desire, hold mine for a heart-stopping moment. Then she tugs my shirt up, fingers trembling slightly against my skin.
"Bedroom?" I manage, barely recognizing my own voice.
She shakes her head. "Too far."
We stumble backward toward the living room, neither willing to break contact. My jacket catches on her side table, sending a photo frame clattering to the carpet. I don't look to see which memory we've disturbed.
The Christmas tree glows in the corner, the only light in the room, casting dancing shadows across Lane's face as she pulls me down onto her couch. The same couch I sat with her and Sanders as we scrolled through the comments on his post, keeping a careful distance. Nothing careful about us now.
My jacket hits the floor. Her sweater follows, revealing skin I've dreamed about for a lifetime. She arches beneath me, a soft sound escaping her throat that makes my blood roar in my ears.
"Lane," I breathe against her neck, inhaling the familiar scent of her gardenia lotion. "I've missed you. God, I've missed you."
Her fingers dig into my shoulders, urgent and demanding. We're half-clothed, half out of our minds with need, and I can't help the rough laugh that escapes me when she fumbles with my belt.
Her body arches beneath me, the soft give of the couch cushions creaking under our weight. My hand fists in the hem of her shirt, yanking it up to bare her tight middle. The skin there is warm, smooth, familiar, and yet brand-new.
She gasps when my mouth trails down her throat, when my stubble scrapes her collarbone. Her fingers clutch at my shoulders, nails biting through the fabric. I feel her pulse hammering as hard as mine.
I tug at her leggings, desperate now. The thin fabric stretches until it gives with a pop of thread. She lets out a shaky laugh, half-moan, half-surprise. “You’re ruining them.”
“I’ll buy you ten more.” My voice is rough, words scraping out between pants.
Her hands are everywhere, shoving at my shirt, dragging it over my head, skimming down my chest like she needs to relearn me inch by inch. Heat scorches through me as her palms flatten against my skin.
I shove her leggings the rest of the way down, tugging them over her knees until she kicks them free, panties the only thing left between us.
Her breath stutters as I hook my fingers in the thin cotton, dragging them down her thighs and tossing them aside. She’s bare now, legs falling open against the cushions, her skin flushed, her body already arching to meet me.
I tear open a condom, the foil sharp in my fist, and roll it on with shaking hands. The whole time, her gaze is on me, chest rising and falling fast.
“Woody,” she whispers, hips shifting, thighs brushing my sides.
“God, Lane.” My voice is a rasp as I shift closer, nudging her thighs apart. I hook her knees over my forearms, lifting, angling her hips so I can slide between them.
The head of my cock drags against her slick heat, and she gasps, clutching at my shoulders.
“Woody…” Her voice is breathless, needy. Her heels dig into my back, urging me closer.
I push forward, slow at first, then deeper, until I’m buried in her again.“Woody…” My name on her lips is half-plea, half-warning.
“Do you like this, Lane?” My forehead presses to hers, our breath tangling hot, uneven. My cock slides deeper, slow at first, just to feel her take me in again. “God, I love being inside you. I missed this. I missed you.”
Her nails bite into my shoulders. Her eyes are wide, dark, unflinching. “Oh, God. Yes. Yessssss.”
My hand finds its way between us, fingers slipping against her, stroking like I’ve never forgotten how. The sound she makes, broken, needy, hits me square in the chest.
“Christ,” I groan into her ear, voice shaking. “Seven years, Lane. Seven years and you still melt for me. You still know exactly how to break me.”
Her hips lift to meet me, every thrust harder, deeper, the couch groaning beneath us. She gasps my name, the way she used to, back when nothing came between us.
“Fuck, you're perfect.” My teeth graze her throat, dragging down to her collarbone. “You always were the best thing I ever had. The only thing.”
Her legs lock around me, heels pressing into my back. She’s close. I feel it in the way her body clenches, the way her breath hitches. Just like it used to.
“Don’t stop,” she gasps, voice cracking, nails clawing at my shoulders. “Woody, please, right there. Don’t stop.”
Her body arches against mine, desperate, clinging.
“It’s always been you,” I rasp, the confession ripped from me as my thrusts lose rhythm. “Only you, Lane. Always you.”
Her eyes squeeze shut, a sound breaking loose from her chest as she shatters in my arms. Her release tears through her, hot and tight around me, dragging me under with her. I groan her name, my forehead pressed to hers, and give in, losing myself in her like I never stopped knowing how.
The world narrows to skin, sweat, the sharp salt of tears we don’t speak of. It’s messy, it’s desperate, but it’s ours.
When the tremors fade, I kiss her slowly, softer, as if I’m afraid of breaking her again. She doesn’t pull away. She kisses me back, lingering, lips trembling but sure.
I rest my forehead against hers, breathing her in. “Ahhh…”
Her fingers trace the back of my neck, hesitant but tender. No words. Just touch.
I pull her close, lifting her from the couch even as my legs shake. She’s light in my arms, her face pressed to my chest. I pull off the condom and throw it onto my heap of clothes on the floor.