LARK #3
His voice is low—gritty and guttural like it’s been scraped from somewhere deep inside.
My pulse skitters, and then his fingers slide beneath the hem of my sweatshirt, the rough pads of them dragging up the curve of my spine, slow and sure.
Like he’s grounding himself in the shape of me, like he doesn’t trust this moment to be real unless he feels it.
His other hand stays on my hip, firm and steady as if he knows I’m two seconds away from bolting.
“No, what?” I ask, even though I’m not sure I want to know the answer. My voice sounds thin and breathless. His thumb presses harder, just enough to make my body go still.
“No more of this shit where you pretend I don’t belong here.” His gaze catches mine and doesn’t waver. “No more talking like this was ever going to end differently. It was always going to be you and me, Lark. You know that.”
I open my mouth. I want to argue. I want to protect myself from the ache clawing up my chest. But he doesn’t give me the space to unravel it.
His hand cups my jaw, gentle but commanding, like he needs me to feel every word he’s about to say. He tucks my hair behind my ear, his knuckles grazing the side of my neck—and I feel it everywhere.
“I never should’ve left you,” he says. “Not the way I did. Not without looking back.”
The confession knocks the breath right out of me.
His thumb skims my cheekbone, soft, reverent. “But I’m here now, and I want you, Lark. I want all of this—the good, the hard, the every-damn-day. But you’ve gotta let me in.”
“I don’t know how,” I admit, the words barely above a whisper.
His gaze drops to my mouth, then back to my eyes. Something shifts behind it—like a fuse being lit.
“Let me show you,” he says, low and rough. A promise, not a question.
And then he kisses me.
It’s not gentle. It’s not tentative.
It’s pure possession.
His mouth crashes into mine like he’s making up for all the time we lost—like he’s trying to erase the space we put between us with teeth and tongue and desperation. My hands fist in his shirt as he drags me tighter against him, like he can’t stand the thought of a single inch between us.
His hands are already under my sweatshirt, warm palms coasting over bare skin, grounding me in the kind of touch that feels like a lifeline.
He explores slowly, thoroughly—as if he’s trying to memorize me all over again.
Like he’s afraid he’ll forget what this feels like if he doesn’t learn it by heart.
I shift in his lap, chasing more of him—more heat, more contact, more of the only person who’s ever made me feel like this.
And Jesus, he’s hard.
Thick and heavy beneath me, the heat of him pressing right where I need him most. His hands clamp down on my hips, keeping me there, dragging me forward so I feel all of him, so I don’t forget exactly what I do to him.
I gasp into his mouth. He groans into mine.
He tilts his head, tongue sliding against mine with the kind of confidence that says he knows me—knows every sound, every shiver, every soft, broken breath that slips out between kisses .
Because this? This is him.
Boone doesn’t just kiss like he wants me.
He kisses like I’m the only thing that’s ever felt right.
Like he’s been walking through hell and just found his way home.
Like he’s starving—and I’m the only thing that’s ever satisfied him.
A shiver rolls through me, and he feels it—of course he does. His hands slide under my sweatshirt, dragging it up inch by inch. He doesn’t bother taking it off. Just pushes it out of his way, giving himself full access.
One hand settles at the small of my back, fingers splayed wide, pulling me flush against him until there’s no space left to think. The other is already in my hair, threading through the strands and giving a slow, deliberate tug that has my breath catching in my throat.
His mouth finds my jaw, rough and warm and completely focused. Then lower.
His lips brush that spot beneath my ear—the one that short-circuits every coherent thought in my head.
“I missed this.”
It hits me in the chest and slides lower.
My breath stutters. His grip tightens like he hears it—like he needs it.
And maybe he’s right. Maybe one day I’ll have to let him back in fully. Let him earn this. Let him show me he’s not leaving again. That this time, the love we build doesn’t come with a timer.
But today? Right now?
All I want is to feel him. To get lost in the way he holds me like I’m something precious. To forget about everything else for just a little while. The Bluebell. The bills. The exhaustion. The aching, hollow place in me that’s been running on empty for years.
Right now, it’s just this.
Him. Me. The way we fit.
I lean in until my mouth brushes his, barely a breath between us. “I missed you,” I whisper. The words sound small, as if they’ve been hiding somewhere in my chest for too long.
Boone freezes .
Just for a second.
Then his hands slide up my spine, pulling me tighter like he’s trying to anchor himself. His mouth ghosts over mine, slower this time. His voice drops, rough and wrecked and too full of everything. “I missed you more than you could possibly understand.”
Then he kisses me again—like the words broke something loose. Soft at first. Then deeper. Hungrier. Like the distance between us was a wound he’s trying to heal with his mouth.
His hands move with purpose, mapping my ribs, curling around my waist, gripping my hips like he’s afraid I’ll slip away again. His lips brush the corner of my mouth, then stop. He doesn’t kiss me—just hovers there, close enough that I can feel his breath when he murmurs, “God, I want you.”
Heat curls low in my stomach, spreading everywhere all at once. My skin hums beneath his touch. Every part of me sharpens and softens at the same time.
I want to say it back.
I want to tell him he’s not the only one unraveling right now. That my body has been waiting for this—this exact feeling—for years.
But it’s been so long since I let anyone this close. Since I let myself be seen.
Since I wasn’t just Lark the mother. Or Lark the one who kept the diner running. Or Lark who carried everyone else’s weight like it was mine to bear.
What if he touches me now and sees someone else entirely?
What if he doesn’t see that girl he used to know—the one who made him laugh, who he used to look at like she hung the stars? What if I don’t feel the same in his hands anymore? What if I’m too changed, too different—too tired?
Boone pulls back just enough to look at me, and it’s all there—every unspoken thought, every second he’s spent wanting this. Wanting me. His lips are swollen, breath uneven, jaw clenched like he’s holding something back—but his eyes say he won’t for long .
Then he grabs the back of my neck and pulls me into him like he can’t stand the distance for one more second. His mouth finds my throat, open and hungry, tongue dragging over my pulse before his teeth scrape against it.
“Please,” he murmurs into my skin. “Let me have you.”
It knocks the wind out of me. I’d forgotten what it felt like to be wanted this much. I let out a soft laugh, my breath catching in my throat. “Didn’t take you for the begging type.”
My fingers find the back of his neck, nails dragging lightly through the thick hair at his nape. He groans. Full-bodied. Desperate. It vibrates against my chest.
“You could have me on my knees, Lark.”
A shiver crawls up my spine, because I believe him.
And even worse? I want it.
His hand drags lower, slipping beneath the waistband of my sweatpants, past the edge of my panties like it’s the most natural thing in the world—like I’ve always been his to touch.
His palm is hot, fingers rough as sin, gripping the curve of my ass with a low, guttural sound that rips straight from his chest.
It’s not quiet. Not controlled. It’s raw—unfiltered want, all tangled up in the way he holds me like he can’t fucking stand how long he went without this.
“Tell me where you want me to take you,” he rasps against my skin, his voice torn, like the need is clawing its way out of him. His mouth drags along my jaw, all heat and stubble and hunger. “Say the word, and I’ll put you there, baby.”
Then his lips drop to my collarbone, tongue sweeping slow and dirty across it before his teeth graze the bone—just enough pressure to make my legs tremble and my thoughts splinter.
My breath catches, sharp and involuntary. His hand slides across my hip, rough fingers dragging under the hem of my shirt, slow and certain, like he’s daring me to stop him.
Boone leans in, mouth brushing the side of my neck. “You want it here?” he says. “Or should I bend you over the kitchen counter and fuck you so hard you forget your own name?”
My knees go weak.
His mouth curves against my skin. “No? Then maybe I should take you to bed and ruin you properly, love.”
My head drops back, lips parting, my pulse slamming in my throat.
I find his ear, breath hot against it. “Then what the hell are you waiting for?”
A rough, broken sound tears from his throat—wrecked and primal—right before his hands grip under my thighs and haul me up like it’s nothing. One second I’m grounded, the next I’m wrapped around him, chest to chest, thighs locked tight around his hips like we’re already halfway there.
I yelp—more from the sheer force of it than anything else—my arms flying around his shoulders, fingers diving into his curls, clutching like I need something to hold onto or I’ll come apart midair.
He climbs the stairs like a man on a mission—like his body’s been waiting for this and now that he has me, there’s not a chance in hell he’s slowing down.
Every step drives him harder into me, the friction between us downright punishing, and I swear I can feel him everywhere. Hard. Pressed exactly where I need him.
My legs squeeze tighter—not to stay balanced. To feel more.
I lean in, breath fanning against his neck. “You do remember there’s a kid in the house, right?”
Boone laughs—low and dark, the sound curling between us like smoke. It rumbles through his chest, deep enough that I feel it against my ribs.
“Yeah,” he says, tightening his hold on my thighs, hitching me higher until I’m eye-level and off-kilter. “Which is exactly why I’m gonna take my time making you come with my mouth first.”
My pulse stumbles. His eyes catch mine—steady, unreadable, burning.
“That way,” he adds, pushing my bedroom door open with his boot and walking us inside like he owns the place, “when I finally fuck you, you’ll be too damn wrecked to make a sound. ”
My breath catches, sharp and jagged, heat blooming between my legs so fast it leaves me dizzy.
He kicks the door shut behind us, and everything else disappears.