Chapter 9 New Beginnings #2
We finish dinner and order coffee. No dessert.
Just coffee. We sit in the candlelight and talk for another hour while the restaurant empties around us.
He tells me about the books he's reading.
A biography of a nineteenth-century cartographer and a novel set in a small town in Oregon.
I tell him about the book I just finished about wildflowers of the American West. He asks if I have any favorites.
I tell him I'm partial to Indian paintbrush because it grows everywhere out here and it never gives up even in bad soil. He nods and says he likes that.
When we leave Sullivan's the night is warm and clear.
The drive back to my house takes ten minutes.
Ross walks me to the front door. We stand on the porch the same way we did after the festival but this time there's no surprise.
No uncertainty. This time when he puts his hand on my face and leans in I'm already leaning toward him.
The kiss lasts longer this time. Slower. More certain. His other hand rests on my waist and I step closer to him. We stay there on the porch for a while. Not rushing. Not pulling apart. Just standing close together in the warm night air.
"Do you want to come inside?" I ask.
He pulls back just enough to look at me. "Only if you want me to."
"I do."
Inside the house is quiet and clean. I left the kitchen light on and it casts a soft glow down the hallway. I set my keys on the counter next to the wildflowers he brought me. He stands in the kitchen doorway and looks around.
"Your house is exactly what I expected," he says.
"What does that mean?"
"It means it feels lived in. Cared for. Real."
I walk over to him and he meets me halfway. We stand in the kitchen and he puts both hands on my waist and looks at me.
"Brook. Are you sure?"
"I'm sure."
He kisses me again. Slower this time. His hands move to my back and I put mine on his shoulders.
His mouth opens against mine and I taste wine and warmth and want.
My fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt.
He pulls me closer until there's no space between us and I can feel the full length of his body against mine.
We move from the kitchen to the hallway without breaking the kiss.
His back hits the wall and I press into him and his hands slide down to my hips and grip.
We make it to the bedroom in stages. Three steps. Another kiss. Two more steps. His mouth on my throat. I pull him through the doorway and reach for the lamp on the nightstand because I want to see his face. I want to see all of him.
He sits on the edge of the bed and reaches for my hand and pulls me gently toward him. I stand between his knees and he looks up at me. His eyes are dark in the low light and his breathing is uneven.
"Tell me if anything doesn't feel right," he says.
"Okay."
He reaches behind me and finds the zipper of my dress.
He pulls it down slowly. I can feel the air on my skin as the fabric loosens and then falls.
It pools at my feet and I step out of it.
He looks at me. His eyes move down my body and then back up to my face.
Not rushing. Not grabbing. Just taking me in with the same careful attention he gives to everything he values.
"You're beautiful," he says. His voice is lower than usual. Rougher.
I unbutton his shirt. One button at a time.
My fingers are steady even though my pulse is racing.
I spread the shirt open and push it off his shoulders and he lets it drop behind him.
His chest is warm under my palms. I can feel his heart beating hard against my hand.
Faster than his calm exterior would suggest. That knowledge does something to me.
Knowing that he wants this as much as I do.
That the steadiness is effort and not indifference.
I reach for his belt. He watches my hands work the buckle and his stomach tightens when my fingers brush his skin below his navel.
I pull the belt free and he stands up and we finish undressing each other.
His pants. My bra. The last few barriers between us removed with a mix of urgency and care that feels exactly right.
We lie on the bed together. Skin against skin. His body is warm and solid and real. He rolls onto his side and pulls me close and his hand traces a slow path from my shoulder down my arm to my hip. My breath catches and he notices. He always notices.
His mouth finds my neck. The spot just below my ear where the skin is thin and sensitive.
He kisses it slowly and I tilt my head back to give him room.
His hand moves from my hip to my stomach.
His fingers spread wide and the warmth of his palm covers me.
Then his hand moves lower. Deliberately. Asking permission with every inch.
"Yes," I whisper. Because he needs to hear it and because I need to say it.
He touches me and my back arches and I grab his forearm.
Not to stop him. To hold on. He is patient and thorough and attentive in the same way he is about everything.
He listens to my body the way he listens to my words.
With focus. With genuine interest in getting it right.
He adjusts his pressure and his rhythm based on how I respond and I respond honestly because there's no reason not to.
No performance. No pretending. Just sensation and trust.