Chapter 10BOONE #3
She sighs—soft and breathy—and I swear I feel it in my bones. That sound? I’d chase it to the ends of the earth if she’d let me.
Her body sways, like maybe—just maybe—she’s about to lean back into me. Like muscle memory, some old instinct, is pulling her in without permission.
For a second, I think she’s there. That we’re there.
But then it’s gone. She catches herself and stiffens, like a rope’s been pulled tight inside her. Like something just snapped into place—some reason, some rule she’s got written in stone now about me and her and why this can’t happen. Not again.
I should let it go. Give her space like I’ve been doing. Like I told myself I would.
But I don’t.
Not because I’m trying to win her over or prove some point, but because I miss her.
Simple as that. Not just her, but the way I was when I was with her—how easy it was to just be .
No games, no pretending to be someone I’m not.
Just Boone and Lark, figuring things out together, laughing at nothing, riding out to nowhere.
I miss making her laugh more than anything—how she’d try not to, like it killed her to let me have the satisfaction, but then she’d give in, full and bright, and I’d feel like I could breathe again.
So I don’t step back. I move in. Slow, steady, no pressure, just… here . I kiss her because I can’t not kiss her. Because for once, I want something that makes sense. And right now, Lark makes sense. Even if it’s only for a second. Even if it complicates everything.
I know this is reckless. I know exactly what I’m risking—how fast this could all go up in flames, how easily we could burn down everything that’s just barely holding together.
There’s history here, landmines we never cleared, words we never said out loud.
Kissing her could be the match that lights up the whole damn thing .
But what if it isn’t?
What if she misses me like I miss her—bone-deep, waking up with it, carrying it around all day like an ache that won’t quit?
What if there’s a part of her that still remembers the good stuff—the easy mornings, the way we used to talk like there was no one else on the planet?
What if she wants to come back to that, too?
I’m not pretending this fixes anything. I’m not naive enough to think a kiss rewrites the past or smooths over the shit I left behind. But there’s a voice in my head—quiet, stubborn—that keeps asking, what if it’s not too late?
I press one more kiss to that spot, lips barely there, voice rough when I whisper against her skin, “Tell me to stop, Lark.”
She doesn’t. Her silence is an answer in itself.
So I kiss her again, harder this time, pressing my mouth to the soft, sweat-slicked skin of her neck. She tastes like salt and something tangy and wild, something that makes my blood run hotter.
Her breath shudders out, shaky and uneven, and then—she tilts her head. Just slightly. Just enough.
Enough to let me know to keep going.
My lips drag down the line of her throat, slow and reverent, brushing over the curve of her shoulder. She’s warm and soft beneath my mouth, skin flushed and damp with heat, and every inch I taste makes it harder to hold back.
My hands twitch at my sides, aching to touch her. To grip her. Claim her.
But I wait. Let her feel it. The weight of this moment. The space between what was and what still could be.
“If you tell me to stop, I will,” I murmur, my voice low, scraped raw against her skin.
She doesn’t say a word. Just exhales—quiet, shaky—like she’s holding back something bigger than breath.
Then she moves.
Just enough .
Her ass presses flush against me, and fuck, I feel it. The friction, the heat, the unmistakable grind of her body against mine. It slams through me like a lightning bolt, stealing the air from my lungs.
That’s it. That’s all I need.
I know she’s missed me. Not in some sweeping, poetic, grand confession kind of way. But in the way her body remembers. In the way she’s leaning into me now, like maybe letting me touch her is the only thing that makes sense.
Maybe this is purely physical for her. Maybe that’s all she can give me.
But right now? I’ll take it.
Because this—her—is the closest I’ve felt to home in years.
She does it again. Grinds against me with deliberate pressure, like she feels exactly how hard I am for her and wants to see how long I can keep it together.
A sound tears from my throat, rough and wrecked. Part groan. Part curse.
All her.
She’s teasing. Playing with fire.
And I snap.
My hands find her hips, fingers curling around the waistband of her leggings as I yank her back into me—harder this time. No more pretending. No more space.
I press into her like I need her to feel it—every inch of what she does to me. My mouth stays on her neck, dragging heat across her skin, tasting her, losing myself in it while her hips keep rolling in that slow, torturous rhythm.
My fingers dig deeper. Holding her there. But it’s not enough.
It’s never fucking enough when it comes to her.
A growl rumbles deep in my chest as I finally lose the last shred of patience. My hands slide off her hips, and I spin her to face me in one fast, hard move.
She gasps.
But I don’t give her time to process it .
I crash my mouth to hers—hard, hungry, needy.
And for the first time in a long time, I feel like I can breathe.
The kiss isn’t careful. It’s not patient. It’s desperate. Messy. Like we’ve been drowning and just found air again.
Like we’re trying to erase the ache of every second we spent apart by tasting all the places we used to know by heart.
She’s soft and warm and tastes like something I forgot I needed—something sweet and maddening and hers.
Her hands are everywhere—gripping my shoulders, sliding into my hair. Like this is just as brutal for her as it is for me.
I slide my hands down her sides, curve them around her ass, and lift her onto the counter. Her legs spread for me, thighs clenching around my hips like her body already knows how this goes—like it’s been waiting for this.
A broken sound leaves her mouth when I drag my teeth across her bottom lip, sucking it into mine before diving back in, deeper this time. Hungrier.
She tilts her head, opens for me, and I take all of it. My tongue slides against hers—slick, slow, claiming. There’s no pretending here. She’s giving me something real, and I take it like I’m afraid she’ll change her mind.
Her nails dig into my scalp as her hips rock against me—just enough to wreck my self-control completely. I break the kiss long enough to breathe a low groan against her mouth. “You trying to kill me, sweetheart?”
She doesn’t answer. Just fists the front of my shirt and yanks me back in like she’s not finished. Her mouth is hot and demanding, her kiss all tongue and need and memory, and I chase it—deepen it—my hand sliding up to tip her chin back so I can take more.
Her body presses into mine, thighs tight around my hips, pulling me in until there’s not a sliver of space between us. My hand trails down her side, over the curve of her waist, slipping under the waistband of her leggings.
And then I feel it—lace.
Barely there. High-cut. Soft and soaked. A teasing little thing that makes my jaw clench hard enough to ache.
A groan slips out, low and sharp, my cock pressing against my zipper like it’s seconds from tearing free. I lean in, let my lips brush the shell of her ear.
“You make it real hard to be a decent man, Lark,” I murmur, her voice tight, half-laugh, all hunger.
She lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh, but her hips roll against me again, like she’s challenging me to stop pretending there’s anything decent left in me when it comes to her.
I dip my head to her neck, mouth dragging along the underside of her jaw, my teeth skimming over skin that tastes like heat and sweat and everything I used to fall asleep dreaming about.
My fingers drift lower, dragging over warm skin and soft lace, teasing us both until they slip underneath—and holy hell. She’s soaked.
A curse catches low in my throat as my hand tightens on her hip, holding her steady. I press two fingers inside, slow and shallow, just enough to feel her clench around me.
“Shit, Lark…”
She exhales a shaky breath, her hands fisting the front of my shirt like it’s the only thing keeping her upright.
“Boone,” she whispers, and my name on her lips nearly finishes me.
Her thighs tense around my hand as I press in deeper, stroking her slowly, my mouth dragging down her neck, tasting her skin like I need it to survive. She shudders when I kiss the dip of her collarbone, and damn if I don’t want to keep her trembling like this for hours.
“You’re so wet, baby,” I murmur, lips brushing her throat. “You want me that bad?”
She nods—barely—but it’s the soft, desperate sound that leaves her that wrecks me. A whimper, quiet and needy, as she rocks against my hand, chasing more.
My fingers move with her, slick and sure, drawing slow, torturous circles that make her hips twitch and her breath catch.
“Look at you,” I breathe. “So needy. So fucking perfect.” My thumb finds her clit, rubbing in slow, deliberate strokes that make her moan. “Bet I could make you come just like this. Right here. Right now. ”
And I want to. God, I want to feel her fall apart for me with nothing but my hand and her name in my mouth.
She gasps, head tipping back with a thunk against the cabinet, her body arching into mine like she doesn’t care where we are, just that I keep touching her.
I press my mouth to the spot just beneath her jaw, dragging my teeth along her pulse before kissing her there—slow and firm, like I want to leave a mark. Because I do.
“Tell me what you want, baby,” I murmur against her skin, my fingers still teasing between her thighs. “You want to come on my fingers? Or do you want my cock instead?”
All I get is another whimper. Soft, wrecked. She grinds against my hand, chasing more, her body already halfway gone.
But that’s not enough.
Not for me.