BOONE #2
Her nipples are peaked through the thin fabric, tight and tempting, and I have to bite back a groan because I know exactly how they feel pebbled against my tongue. Exactly how she arches when I take them in my mouth.
Fuck me.
She shifts in my arms, her body pressing closer. Just enough to remind me what it feels like to have her against me again.
Then her fingers move—soft and easy—right to the back of my neck. They slip into my hair like they’ve been waiting to do it this whole time. Like they remember.
And fuck, I feel it everywhere.
She used to do this without thinking. A reflex. Something casual and sweet that always hit me like a goddamn sucker punch. And now—after everything—it still does.
Her touch is light, almost lazy. But the second her nails drag against my skin, I have to lock my jaw to keep the sound inside. The low, wrecked groan that’s climbing up my throat .
I grip her a little tighter. My hand sliding lower on her waist, holding her in place. Because I know if she keeps touching me like that—if she keeps playing with my hair like it’s hers to touch—I won’t last.
She has no idea what she’s doing to me. Or maybe she does.
Maybe she knows exactly how to ruin me.
And maybe I want her to.
Because I’d dance with her all damn night if it meant her hands stayed on me like this.
And if she doesn’t stop soon, I’m going to kiss her. No hesitation. No taking it slow.
Just mine.
I tighten my grip on her waist, just slightly, enough to feel the warmth of her skin through the material, enough to make her breath catch.
Enough to remind her that if Hudson wasn’t in the vicinity, I wouldn’t be standing here, swaying like a gentleman.
I’d have her pinned to the fridge, my hand sliding under that waistband, my mouth dragging against her throat up to her perfect, full lips, swallowing every last one of those soft, breathy sounds she used to make for me.
Then I’d lift her into my arms, carry her upstairs, strip her down inch by inch, savoring every bare patch of skin as it’s revealed to me.
I’d step into the shower with her, press her up against the slick tile, feel the heat of the water mix with the heat of her body.
Watch the rivulets run down the valley between her breasts, along the dips of her stomach.
And then I’d drop to my knees. I’d slide my hands up the backs of her thighs, hold her exactly where I want her, and taste her until she’s trembling, until my name spills from her lips in that breathless, broken way that always undoes me.
It takes every bit of willpower I have not to do it now.
Damn. Maybe I am a fucking caveman.
I swallow, trying to get my shit together, and squeeze her waist just enough to make her glance up at me.
“Stop looking at your feet,” I murmur against the shell of her ear .
Her lips part slightly, just a little, and she finally—finally—meets my gaze.
And suddenly, I don’t give a shit that Hudson is in the same room. I don’t care that we’re standing in her damn kitchen, that the dumplings are probably getting cold.
I want to kiss her.
She frowns slightly. “What?”
I clear my throat. “Just keep your eyes on me. You don’t always have to look at your feet. I’ve got you.”
Her throat bobs, and she nods. Maybe she’s thinking the same thing I am. Maybe I’m not imagining the slow flush creeping up her neck, or the way her fingers tighten just slightly on my shoulders.
I twirl her, and she spins back with a laugh, golden hair fanning out behind her.
Then she grins. “Your turn.”
“What?”
She gestures with a flick of her fingers. “You heard me. Twirl for me, cowboy.”
Hudson lets out a loud laugh from the counter.
I arch a brow, smirking. “You always were bossy.”
She winks. “Never heard you complain about that before.”
Well, shit. She’s gonna ruin me.
Maybe she already has.
But I do it. I spin, a half-assed, lazy twirl that makes Hudson clutch his stomach from laughing so hard.
“Not bad,” Hudson says, trying to catch his breath. “Could’ve been better, though.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Lark says, turning toward him, hands on her hips. “I didn’t realize we had a professional ballroom judge in our midst.”
Hudson shrugs, reaching for his water. “I’m just saying. The footwork was kinda sloppy.”
Lark scoffs. “Footwork? What do you know about footwork?”
Hudson gives her a deadpan look. “Mom. I play baseball. ”
She waves him off. “Swinging a bat is not the same as a perfectly executed twirl.”
Hudson snickers. “Whatever, Len Goodman.”
I bark out a laugh at that one, and Lark shoots Hudson a narrow-eyed look. “Alright, smartass, it’s time for bed. Go brush your teeth.”
Hudson groans again, dragging it out for dramatic effect, but doesn’t argue. He shoves his chair back, grabs his empty bowl, and carries it to the sink. Then, without warning, he turns and wraps his arms around me.
I freeze for half a second, caught off guard. Then instinct kicks in, and I wrap my arms around him, holding on just as tight. He pulls away and turns to Lark, hugging her too.
“Night, guys,” he mumbles.
“Night, baby,” Lark murmurs, smoothing a hand over his hair.
He heads for the stairs but stops just before he reaches them. Glances back over his shoulder.
“I wish it could be like this every night,” he says quickly, almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.
Lark stills beside me. “Like what?”
Hudson shrugs, shifting on his feet. “Like, all three of us. Together.”
The words settle between us, heavier than they should be.
Lark looks at me. I look at her.
Then she looks away.
Hudson takes the stairs two at a time, disappearing before either of us can say anything. The sound of his door clicking shut echoes down the hallway, leaving nothing but silence in his wake.
Lark lets out a long breath, rubbing her forehead, her other arm crossing over her stomach. She stares at the spot where Hudson just stood like she’s still trying to process his words. Then she turns to me, eyes sharp, guarded. “Do you think we’re confusing him?”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Confusing him how?”
She hesitates for half a second, then lifts her chin. “Maybe making him think we’re…I don’t know. Getting back together or something?”
Would that be so bad ?
The thought comes fast, unbidden, landing in my chest with a weight I wasn’t expecting. She’s letting me in—just enough to be in Hudson’s life, but not enough to be in hers the way I used to be. And maybe things won’t ever be the same as they were before. Maybe I’ve ruined that chance.
But hell, I want it.
I keep my voice even. “Why would he think that?”
She levels me with a look, like she knows damn well why. “Oh, I don’t know,” she says dryly. “Maybe the flirty dancing in the kitchen?”
A slow smile tugs at my mouth. “So you were flirting with me?”
Her eyes narrow, arms tightening over her chest. “No. You were flirting with me .”
I nod like I’m considering it. “Maybe. Hard to say.”
She scoffs. “It’s really not.”
“You’re the one who told me to twirl.”
Lark lets out an exasperated noise, throwing up her hands. “Oh, come on. You loved it.”
“Didn’t hate it,” I admit, tilting my head. “Kind of felt like a Disney prince.”
She rolls her eyes. “Right. You’re practically Prince Charming.”
“Charming as hell,” I correct, my grin widening.
She lets out a frustrated sigh, but I catch the way the corners of her mouth twitch, like she’s fighting a smile.
I step in closer. “Admit it. You liked it. Dancing with me.”
Her eyes flick to mine, that flush creeping up her neck again. “I—”
Then, just like that, she pivots, and walks to the kitchen sink like this conversation never happened, grabbing Hudson’s bowl to wash it out.
I follow her, my steps unhurried. There’s no way in hell I’m letting her walk away from this—walk away from me. Not if I can help it.
She’s standing at the sink, hands in the soapy water, focused like those dishes are holding the world together.
I hear it.
That tiny hitch in her breath. She knows I’m here.
I step in behind her, close enough that she can feel the heat of me at her back. Close enough that if I so much as lean down an inch, I could press my lips to the soft spot beneath her ear. The one that makes her shiver.
My hands come down slow, one on each side of the counter. Trapping her without touching her. Giving her every chance to move—and praying she doesn’t.
She goes still. Doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t lean in either.
“Lark.”
My voice is quiet. Low. Meant only for her.
She doesn’t stop washing the goddamn bowl.
I lean in a little closer, just enough that my breath brushes the shell of her ear. Her fingers falter, just barely. The dish slips in her grip before she catches it, but she still won’t look at me.
I reach around her, pull the bowl gently from her hands, rinse it and set it in the rack. I don’t crowd her. I give her space.
She still doesn’t move.
“You’re not gonna turn around, are you?” I murmur.
“Nope.”
A laugh rumbles low in my chest, warm against the side of her neck. “God, you’re such a pain in the ass.”
I pause, voice softening. “I love it.”
She lets out a sharp exhale—half scoff, half maybe-laugh. But I see it. The way her shoulders drop, just barely. Like she’s letting herself breathe.
I lean in again, not quite kissing her—just letting my lips hover near her skin. A whisper of breath against her neck. She stays still, but her breathing shifts. Shallow. Uneven.
“You know,” I murmur, mouth brushing her jaw, “I was definitely flirting with you earlier.”
Still no argument. No shove. No sarcasm. Just silence.
So I push it a little further.
“I think,” I say, my lips at her shoulder now, “you were flirting back.”
Her fingers curl around the edge of the counter. White-knuckled.
I take the opening. Gently sweep her hair over her shoulder, baring her neck .
And I kiss her.
Right below her ear. Right where I know she feels it the most.
Slowly, with just enough pressure to mean something.