Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
L andyn
His mouth crashes into mine before I can even get the key in the door.
There’s no hesitation, just heat. The kind that’s been building between us since the second I walked back into Cove, and maybe long before that.
It’s years of silence and of want, it’s everything we didn’t say back then crashing into now.
He backs me into the wall beside the door, one of his hands sliding around the back of my neck while the other tugs at the hem of my dress, like he needs me undressed, now.
I gasp when his hips press into mine. God, he’s already hard, thick and solid through his jeans, and it sends a jolt of pure desire through me.
The ridge of his erection presses against my stomach as our mouths open to each other, tongues tasting, searching.
His scent—clean skin and man— floods my senses, grounding me in something that’s always felt like home.
The keycard slips from my hand and hits the floor but neither of us moves to grab it. Ford keeps kissing me—deep, rough kisses that steal every breath I try to take. His mouth moves with intention, like he’s trying to remember every inch of me, trying to memorize the way I taste.
“Get us inside,” he murmurs between kisses, lips brushing mine.
I bend for the key, grab it blindly, and manage to swipe us into the room. The second the door clicks shut behind us, he’s back on me.
“God, I’ve thought about this,” he groans between kisses. “Too many fucking times.”
His hands are everywhere— in my hair, on my hips, drifting over my hips to my ass before they find the zipper at the back of my dress.
He growls low in his throat as he pushes the straps of my dress over my shoulders with both hands.
The fabric slides slowly over my hips and down my thighs, his knuckles brushing bare skin, igniting a trail of heat as he goes.
His eyes drag over me slowly, like he’s seeing me for the first time and remembering everything all at once.
I’m left in nothing but a thin, black matching set. His gaze darkens.
“Black lace,” he says under his breath, voice hoarse. “Of course you’d still kill me with this. Fuck, Landyn…”
He stands here for a heartbeat with his chest rising and falling, then grabs the back of his neck like he’s trying to restrain himself.
Needing him badly, my hands move to his chest, tugging at the buttons of his shirt.
My fingers tremble as I undo each one, then drag the fabric down his shoulders until it hits the ground, revealing the hard ridges of his chest and abs.
Three columns of defined abs, pecs that have been sculpted in the gym, a light dusting of dark hair.
He’s all firm muscle and strength, and when I run my hands down his torso, he sucks in a breath like I just punched the air out of him.
“I used to dream about you like this,” he says, low and rough, his hand sliding around to cup my ass as he walks me backward toward the bed. “Wearing this. Looking at me like you needed me.”
“I do need you,” I whisper, and I mean it in ways I can’t even say out loud.
The back of my knees hit the bed, and I sink onto the mattress, heart racing so fast it’s almost dizzying.
He nudges me, gentle but certain, and I fall back with a breathless laugh, one that dies the second he follows, crawling over me with that look that’s always undone me.
His hands brace the mattress on either side of my shoulders, caging me in like he’s not giving me a chance to run.
I suck in a sharp breath when his knee presses between mine, spreading me open, making room for him until he’s right there, settled deep between my thighs, all heat and solid muscle. His bare chest brushes mine, warm and sure, like it belongs here. Like he belongs here.
When he grinds his cock into me, through the rough denim of his jeans and the flimsy scrap of my thong, I can’t hold back the moan that rips from me.
It’s hard, hungry pressure against the aching center of me, the friction hitting all the right places until I can’t think past it.
Past him. It’s perfect and blinding and a little bit dangerous because if I let myself feel all of it, I might never want to stop.
“Oh my god—” I gasp, arching up into him.
“Feel that?” he rasps against my neck, rocking his hips. “That’s what you do to me. Always have.”
His cock rubs right against me, thick and hard, dragging across the spot that makes me dizzy.
The friction is too much and not enough.
My hands claw at his back, pulling him down so I can feel more—taste more—of the man I never stopped wanting.
I arch beneath him, rolling my hips up to find his arousal, greedy for more.
“Please…”
His mouth moves over my collarbone, between my breasts, down to the curve of lace. “I want to tear this off you,” he growls. “I want my mouth everywhere. I want to see how wet you are for me.”
I moan, head falling back into the pillows. “Yes. Ford, yes.”
“God, June,” he groans, kissing me again, deeper this time like he wants to consume me. When his fingers slip beneath the band of my underwear, dipping between my folds, I can’t hold back the desperate sound that escapes me.
“You’re so wet, baby,” he murmurs as his fingers trail back up my body, just barely brushing over the waistband of my underwear. “You want me this bad?”
I can only nod, eyes glazed, lips parted as he leans in to kiss me again, deeper this time, hungrier.
We’re tangled, frantic, the room echoing with gasps and whispers and the soft rustle of sheets. I reach for the button of his jeans and?—
My phone rings.
Loud, sharp, coming from my purse across the room. It cuts through the moment like a blade. A chill skates down my spine when I hear the ringtone. The one I assigned to my mom, who is taking care of my daughter right now.
Ford groans, forehead dropping to my shoulder. “Let it go to voicemail.”
“I can’t,” I whisper, suddenly cold even though my skin’s burning.
He leans back, confused, breath still ragged. “Why? ”
“I just—” I sit up fast, heart in my throat. “I have to get it.”
Without looking at him, I climb off the bed in my bra and underwear. My legs are unsteady, shaking from the intensity of everything we were just wrapped up in. I find my purse near the door, dig through it, and grab the phone as guilt slams into me like a fist.
I shoot Ford a look I can’t explain and turn away, walking into the bathroom where I swipe to answer the call, trying to steady my breath.
“Hi,” I say, as calmly as I can manage.
In the other room, I can feel Ford’s presence. Quiet and waiting for an explanation that I don’t know if I can give to him. Without looking back, I shut the bathroom door behind me as gently as I can.
My heart is pounding—wild and erratic—as I press the phone to my ear and sink down onto the closed lid of the toilet, my pulse still buzzing with everything I just walked away from.
“Hi, Mom,” I say again, forcing air into my lungs. “Is everything okay?”
There’s a beat of silence on her end, and then, “Everything’s fine, honey. Poppy just wanted to say goodnight. She got a little upset when she didn’t get to talk to you before bed.”
My eyes sting. Guilt coils tighter in my chest. “Oh. Yeah. No—I’m glad you called.” I lower my voice, like that’ll help contain everything I’m not ready to spill. “Put her on?”
There’s some shuffling, the muffled sound of footsteps, and then that tiny, sleepy voice comes through the speaker.
“Hi, Mama.”
My throat catches. “Hi, baby. ”
“I made a card for you,” she tells me. “It has a bunny on it. Grandma said we’ll put it on the fridge tomorrow.”
I close my eyes, resting my forehead in my hand. “I can’t wait to see it. Did you have a good day?”
She tells me about pancakes and the swimming pool and how Grandma let her stay up 15 extra minutes. Her voice is soft and sleepy and full of love and here I am, hiding half-naked in a hotel bathroom, caught between the man I once loved and the daughter he doesn’t know exists.
“Are you coming home tomorrow?” she asks.
I blink back the burn in my eyes. “Not yet. Just a couple more sleeps, okay?”
“Okay,” she says. “I love you.”
“I love you more.”
The line goes quiet. My mom comes back on. “She’s okay now. Just missed you.”
I nod, even though she can’t see me. “Thanks for calling.”
There’s a pause on her end. “Landyn?”
“Yeah?”
“You have to tell him.”
I close my eyes. “I know,” I whisper, and for the first time, I mean it.
We hang up. I set the phone down on the counter and stare at myself in the mirror. My cheeks are flushed, my hair a mess, my eyes still lit with the leftover sparks of something I almost let happen. Something I still want so badly it aches.
I exhale, steadying myself, then I open the bathroom door.
Ford is sitting on the edge of the bed, shirtless, jeans half-undone, elbows braced on his knees. His head lifts when he hears the door. His eyes meet mine, and I know.
He doesn’t understand what just happened, but he knows something’s off, and he knows it’s big.
He’s going to start asking questions and he won’t let me dodge them for long.
I tell myself I can’t do it this weekend.
Ford needs to focus on Cove and putting out the fire from bad publicity.
Once I get through this weekend, I’ll tell him about Poppy.
His eyes scan me—slowly, carefully, like he’s reading every line of my face, every inch of skin that’s still flushed from what almost happened.
“You okay?” he asks, voice low.
I nod. “Yeah. Just… my mom.” Not a lie, not the whole truth either.
He doesn’t say anything right away.
“She just wanted to check in. All good.” I force a soft smile, something light, like everything between us didn’t just shift on its axis.
Ford leans back slightly, studying me like he’s trying to decide what to believe. “Everything’s good,” he echoes. It doesn’t sound like a question.
I bend down and grab my dress from the floor, straightening it out as casually as I can. “Yes, she’s fine. Sorry about… that. The call.”
He stands slowly, running a hand through his hair, jaw tight. “Yeah. No problem.”
But it is.
It’s a problem.
Because now everything’s off.
He doesn’t push. Doesn’t press.
“I think I’m gonna call it,” I say, suddenly very aware that I’m still in nothing but my bra and underwear. He just watches me quietly as I slide the dress back on, tug the straps into place, avoid his eyes.
He nods once, slowly. “Yeah. Sure.”
He picks up his shirt from the floor and tugs it back on. I open the door, and he follows me, stepping into the hallway and then turning to face me.
“Goodnight, June,” he says, and his voice is so soft, so careful, it nearly undoes me.
I glance at him, heart aching. “Goodnight, Ford.”
He holds my gaze a second longer—eyes searching, but lips pressed shut—then turns and walks down the hall. I step back into the room, close the door behind me, and rest my back against it.