Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Colton
Ishouldn’t be this affected by a car ride. By the quiet hum of the engine. By the way the city lights blur past the windshield. By the woman sitting beside me like she hasn’t detonated an explosion inside my chest.
Melissa shifts slightly in her seat, crossing her legs, and the movement is subtle, innocent even, but my grip clutches the steering wheel all the same. I can feel her presence by the warmth and awareness in my body.
This was a mistake. Not bringing her out. Not asking her to dinner. Letting her get this close to me.
She smells different tonight. Not hospital clean. Not antiseptic and coffee and stress. Softer. Warmer. The kind of presence that stays.
I inhale through my nose and regret it instantly.
I’ve spent years mastering control. Discipline. Restraint. I don’t lose my footing. But right now, my body is betraying me. Every stoplight feels like a dare.
I imagine pulling over. Telling her I forgot my wallet, leaning across the console, framing her face in my hands. I imagine the way her breath would hitch, the way her eyes would darken when she realized I was done fighting it.
My jaw clenches. I don’t do this. I don’t get consumed by want. I don’t unravel because of proximity. I especially don’t react like this to a woman who looks at me like she’s trying not to hope for more.
“You’re quiet,” she says gently.
Her voice cuts through my thoughts like a blade.
I glance at her, long enough to see the curve of her mouth, the way her fingers fidget in her lap. She’s nervous—I can tell. And somehow that makes it worse.
“Sorry, just thinking,” I reply.
She hums. “That’s exactly what a girl wants to hear on a date.”
I try not to smile at her honesty, but the car fills with silence again. It doesn’t feel awkward but loaded. The kind that pulses beneath the skin. The kind that makes me acutely aware of how close my hand is to her thigh, even though it’s nowhere near touching.
She looks out the window, and I force my attention back to the road.
Focus. This is only dinner.
But my body doesn’t care about logic. It responds to her laugh earlier. To the way she looked at me downstairs, like she wasn’t sure what version of me she was getting. To the fact that she still came anyway.
I exhale slowly, counting it out, like I’m trying to steady myself before delivering bad news.
Don’t touch her. Don’t pull over. Don’t make promises you won’t keep.
Because if I do, I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop. And the most dangerous part? I’m not sure I want to.
The restaurant is understated in the way money usually is—dark wood, low lighting, quiet confidence. No menus laminated. No prices listed. The kind of place that doesn’t need to impress because it already knows it has.
Melissa pauses inside the door, taking it in. I watch her reaction. Her eyes widen a fraction. Not in awe, but in appreciation. Curiosity. The kind of reaction that tells me she isn’t intimidated by this world so much as aware she’s stepping into it.
“This is …” She trails off, then laughs softly. “Wow.”
I rest a hand at the small of her back again, brief but grounding. “Too much?”
She shakes her head. “No. Just … different.”
Different from hospital corridors. From grief. From the careful, narrowed life she’s been living.
Good.
We’re seated quickly. A booth tucked into the corner. Intimate without being obvious.
When the waiter arrives, I don’t even look at the list. I name a vintage Barolo. It’s rare, complex—the kind of bottle people wait years to open. He nods once, recognition flickering across his face, and disappears.
Melissa’s eyes snap to mine. “You didn’t even hesitate.”
“I know what I like,” I say simply.
“And you assume I will too?”
I shrug. “Calculated risk.”
The wine arrives, poured with ceremony. The moment she smells it, her expression changes completely.
“Oh,” she breathes, leaning closer to the glass. “This is …” She laughs again, genuinely delighted. “This is incredible.”
I feel an unexpected surge of satisfaction at that. Watching her light up over something as simple as wine. Watching the edges soften. And those red lips. The way they press delicately against the rim of the glass. How plump and ready they look to be devoured.
I shift uncomfortably in my seat as my dick hardens slightly.
“I thought you might like it,” I reply as I take a sip, then place the glass down and lean back. “You like wine?” I ask despite knowing the answer.
She smiles slowly. “I love wine. I’ve got this amazing wine book that has taught me so much about the process. I find it so fascinating.”
I see her eyes trail to the label of the bottle and open wide with interest.
“Colton”—she sits up straighter— “this is a 2010 Barolo. What on earth did you do? This is too much!”
I chuckle as I rub my chin. “Why don’t you let me decide what’s too much?” I say, then wink.
She exhales and falls back in her seat. “I see you’re bossy, even outside of work.”
My body tenses. I think about what kind of bossy I could show her. I panic for a moment, wondering if she’s even the type of woman who likes dirty, rough sex. Then I see her adjust herself in her seat, and redness appears on her neck and cheeks as she sees where my mind has gone. Maybe not.
Dinner unfolds easily after that. Conversation flows in a way that surprises me.
She tells me about her childhood, about nursing school, about how she learned to stay steady in the middle of chaos.
She tells me about her parents, whom she isn’t close with.
Her mom being an alcoholic and her father a classic avoider.
And eventually … we talk about Bryce.
She doesn’t bring him up dramatically. No heavy preamble. Just a quiet truth laid between us.
“This is my first date since he died,” she says, eyes steady but vulnerable. “I wasn’t sure I’d ever want one again.”
My breath catches hard behind my ribs.
“I’m glad you did,” I say carefully as I look her in the eyes.
“So am I,” she admits. “Even if it’s terrifying.”
We finish dessert slowly but neither of us some to be ready for the night to end.
The drive back is quieter than the one there. Not awkward. Charged.
The wine has loosened her enough that she feels closer beside me, her body angled slightly my way now. Every small movement registers sharply.
I keep my eyes on the road—because if I look at her the way I want to, I won’t make it to her building.
Her voice is softer now when she speaks, slower, like she’s letting herself linger in each moment instead of rushing through it. I answer her easily, but every word feels like it’s coming through clenched restraint.
By the time I pull up in front of her building, my hands are tight on the steering wheel.
I turn off the engine. The silence lands heavy.
She doesn’t reach for the door.
Neither do I.
When I finally turn to her, it’s the first time all night I let myself really look. The streetlight catches her mouth—still stained red, lips parted, like she’s about to say what she hasn’t decided on yet.
I lift a hand slowly, giving her every chance to pull away. She doesn’t.
My thumb brushes her jaw, then stills, like I’m committing the shape of her to memory. My gaze drops back to her lips, and the pull is almost painful.
“Melissa,” I murmur.
She inhales sharply at the sound of her name on my tongue. I lean in, but I don’t kiss her yet.
I let the moment stretch. My forehead hovers close to hers. The tension between us is thick enough to touch. Her breaths quicken. I feel it before I hear it.
My lips brush hers once. Barely.
A test.
She exhales. It’s a soft, unguarded sound, and that’s all it takes.
I kiss her slowly, deliberately. Her mouth opens on a sigh, and the sound slides straight through me, loosening the tight grip I’ve had on myself.
I deepen the kiss, unhurried, letting my mouth move against hers with intention instead of hunger. She responds immediately, meeting me with a quiet moan that vibrates between us.
My hand slips to her knee.
I drag my thumb lightly over the fabric of her dress, feeling her shiver beneath my touch. Her breath stutters, and she presses closer.
I pull back enough to kiss the corner of her mouth, then her jaw, then back to her lips. I tease her slowly, making her wait, even as her fingers curl into my coat.
Her breathing turns uneven.
I slide my hand higher along her thigh. I feel the tremor run through her, and it hits me harder than anything else tonight.
I don’t take more. I don’t let myself.
Instead, I trail my hand back down, deliberately retreating, and she lets out a quiet, frustrated sound that nearly breaks me.
I kiss her again. Deeper now, fuller, pouring everything I’m holding back into the way my mouth moves against hers. Want. Restraint. The unspoken truth that this isn’t simply desire.
It’s connection.
I finally pull away and rest my forehead against hers, my breathing as unsteady as hers.
She’s shivering.
I cup her face again, thumbs brushing her cheeks, rooting both of us.
“We’ll take this slow,” I say quietly.
Her eyes meet mine, dark and honest. “I’d like that.”
I kiss her once more, then force myself to stop before I forget how.
She opens the door, glancing back at me once before stepping out.
I watch her walk inside, knowing with absolute certainty that nothing has ever affected me the way she just did.
And walking away tonight?
It might be the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Proven by the hard dick straining in my pants.