Chapter 23 Lane
TWENTY-THREE
Lane
Steam rises from my coffee mug, swirling into the air like my thoughts. The Christmas garlands framing the café windows catch the morning light, casting tiny shadows across Jerry's familiar face. He sits across from me, his hands flat on the table, waiting.
I've never been good at these conversations.
"I appreciate you meeting me," I say, keeping my voice as clear and sure as possible.
Jerry's eyes are kind blue eyes I once found them so comforting. "You seemed different on the phone. Like you needed to say something."
The espresso machine hisses behind the counter. A bell chimes as the door opens, letting in a blast of cold air. I wrap my fingers tighter around my mug, seeking warmth that doesn't come.
"I felt like I owed you this. I know we broke up almost three months ago, but it still felt like we needed closure."
Jerry nods slowly. I've always appreciated that about him, how he listens, how patient he can be.
"Closure," Jerry says gently, interrupting my thoughts. "That's what this is."
I nod, appreciating his frankness. Jerry has been there for Sanders in ways Woody couldn't be. School plays when Woody was in surgery. Baseball games, when emergencies called him away.
My chest is hollow. How many times have I run to Jerry after Woody disappointed me? How often did Jerry become the calm after every storm, the easy fix for an ache I couldn't soothe?
"You've been good to me and Sanders," I say quietly. "And I do care about you. But it's not fair to keep your hopes up when my heart's still with Woody. Even if that terrifies me. Even if that goes nowhere."
The words hang between us. Jerry's face shifts, a flash of pain quickly controlled. He exhales through his nose, the hint of bitterness softening into resignation.
"Then I guess that's it," he says, pushing back his chair. "I hope he doesn't screw it up this time. You deserve the world, Lane."
My shoulders tense. I'm not proud of the comfort Jerry gave me, only grateful.
"Jerry—"
"It's okay, Lane. I think I always knew."
He leaves money for his coffee and walks away. No dramatic exit, no scene. Just Jerry, being Jerry—neat, dependable, gracious even in goodbye.
As I step outside into the cold, my breath fogs the air, sharp and clear. For the first time in years, I'm free, even if it means walking straight into uncertainty.
My footsteps echo through the quiet house as I move around my kitchen. Sanders crashed hard after the excitement of Luke's successful surgery, barely making it through his bedtime routine before falling asleep mid-sentence about helicopter rides and going to see him.
I wipe down the marble countertop, letting my mind drift. The navy cabinets gleam in the soft lighting, everything in its place. Through the wall of windows, my winter garden sits in darkness, waiting for spring.
The Christmas tree's multicolored lights pulse gently in the den, casting shifting shadows across the floor. I've always found peace in this hour, the quiet after Sanders sleeps, when the house belongs just to me.
My fingers trace the gold cabinet pulls, cool beneath my touch. Everything is somehow different tonight. Clearer, somehow. Like saying goodbye to Jerry cleared away a fog I needed clearing to be able to really let myself trust Woody fully.
I needed to not have a safety net.
The knock on the door is soft, but it jolts me anyway. My heart knows who it is before my mind catches up.
When I open it, Woody stands there, casual but tense, hands shoved into his pockets. The porch light catches the gold rim around his hazel eyes. Neither of us speaks at first. Then he steps in, closing the door behind him, the air between us shifting instantly.
"He's asleep?" he asks, voice low.
I nod, hyperaware of every inch between us. Our eyes lock, and whatever words might've come next dissolve into the charged silence.
He crosses to me in three strides, his mouth finding mine. The kiss starts gently, then deepens, heat sparking between us like it's always been waiting. I laugh against his lips when my hip bumps the counter, and the sound turns into a soft moan as his hands find my waist.
My fingers slide up his chest, feeling his heartbeat thundering beneath my palm, tugging at his shirt. "Woody," I whisper, not a question or a statement, just the truth of him, here in my kitchen, after all these years of pretending I didn’t want exactly this.
“I’m here,” he murmurs against my neck, his lips dragging fire across my skin. No hesitation. No doubt.
No angry words. No unfinished sentences. Just this quiet surrender to what’s always been there, waiting for us to stop fighting it.
He lifts me easily, setting me on the counter, my legs locking around him as he starts unbuttoning my shirt. His hands slide around me, hot against bare skin, pushing higher.
“God, Lane,” he groans, grinding against me, voice ragged. “I can’t stop this. I don’t want to.”
My answer is a moan torn from my throat, my hips surging to meet him. Years of walls shatter in an instant. There’s no going back.
Woody carries me from the kitchen, our lips never separating as we stumble through the hallway. My back arches as he lowers me onto my bed, the comforter cool against my heated skin.
The frenzied urgency from the kitchen transforms into something different here, something reverent and measured. His weight settles over me, familiar yet new. Moonlight spills through the half-drawn curtains, painting silver streaks across his shoulders.
"We don't have to rush," he whispers, his breath warm against my collarbone.
His fingers trace the line of my throat, trailing down to the curve of my hip. I shiver despite the heat building between us. There's something about the way he touches me, like he's rediscovering territory once known by heart.
"Woody," I breathe, his name escaping like a prayer I'd forgotten how to say.
He inhales deeply, as if trying to capture the sound in his memory. Each touch is weighted with meaning, with years of separation and longing.
His palm skims my ribs, and memories flood back, all the times we'd been together before, when we were young and believed love was enough.
Between kisses, my voice breaks loose, ragged and low. “I want you inside of me. Now.”
My words are desperate, stripped bare, and for once, I don’t care how they sound.
He groans as his breath comes out hard. “Lane. I want that too. But not fast. Not like we’re stealing it. I want to take my time with you this time, every inch, every sound you make.”
Heat floods through me at the promise in his tone. My hands fist his shirt, dragging it over his head. “Then show me,” I whisper as I wash my hands over his defined abs.
“Oh, I'll show you.” His mouth claims mine again, rough and hungry, then softens into something deeper. His palms slide under my thighs, lifting me higher on the bed, and my knees fall open around him.
His hands roam over my hips, my ribs, up to my breasts. He bends, his lips closing over one nipple through my bra, sucking just enough to make me gasp. Then his teeth scrape lightly, his voice a growl against my skin. “Seven years, Lane. You're more beautiful now than you ever were.”
I pull at him, desperate to have him closer, frantic to feel him inside me, but he stops me. His fingers toy with the waistband of my leggings, inching them down, dragging slowly over my hips and thighs. “I’m going to take you apart piece by piece.”
His palm trails down over my hip, skimming my outer thigh, then slips between my legs to tug my panties aside.
The first stroke of his fingers makes me arch, a gasp torn from my throat. He watches me, his gaze dark and unflinching, like he’s cataloging every reaction.
“You're so tight,” he murmurs, slipping a finger inside, curling it just right. My hips jerk. He adds another, his thumb circling lazily over my clit. “Yeah, Lane. You’re soaked for me already.”
“Woody…” My voice cracks, need thrumming through me.
“You want my mouth, don’t you?” he asks, wicked and low. Before I can answer, he’s moving lower, pulling my panties with him, spreading my thighs wide. The first sweep of his tongue makes me cry out as my fingers tangle in the sheets.
Seven years vanish in an instant. It’s like no time has passed. We instinctively know the rhythm of each other's bodies, the sweet spots.
He takes me right to the brink, my body bowing, my breath breaking, then pulls back, leaving me trembling and empty.
“Not yet,” he rasps, crawling back up to kiss me, his lips slick with me. “I want to be inside you when you fall apart.”
He grabs his cock and nudges at my entrance, pushing in slowly, inch by inch, until I’m gasping his name.
“Jesus Christ, Lane,” he groans, forehead against mine, his thrusts steady, unhurried. “It’s always been you. Always.”
My legs lock around his hips, pulling him closer. My nails dig into his back, dragging down his skin. The world outside this room disappears. There's no past, no future, just this slow, relentless claiming that I never wanted to admit I missed.
It's deeper than before, not just physically but emotionally.
"God, I've missed you," he murmurs against my ear, his voice rough as he continues to pump into me. "I still love you. Never stopped."
I cry out as he pushes deeper, the stretch and fullness tipping me right to the edge. “I love you, Woody,” I gasp, the words slipping free before I can stop them.
His breath shudders out hot against my ear. “Say it again.” His thrusts grow harder, faster, his hand finding mine and pinning it above my head.
“Woody—” My voice breaks as the rhythm builds, sharp and relentless. The headboard thuds against the wall in time with my pulse, every movement winding me tighter, until I can’t think, can’t breathe.
"I love you. I've always loved you. Oh… Yes!"
It hits like lightning. My whole body clenches around him as my cry tears through the room. He groans my name, hips driving once, twice, before he buries himself deep and falls apart with me.