Chapter 17LARK #5
His lips crash into mine, hungry and all-consuming, stealing my breath, making my head spin.
His tongue sweeps against mine, coaxing me open, claiming me all over again.
The heat of him, the taste of him, it’s too much and somehow not enough all at once.
His hands slide down my body, gripping my waist, holding me in place as he takes his time, as he kisses me like he’s trying to fuse us together.
I barely register the sensation at first, the warmth trickling down my thighs, the evidence of him inside me spilling out. But Boone does. His grip tightens, his fingers trailing lower, and then he’s there, gathering it up, pushing it back inside of me with slow, deliberate strokes.
A sharp gasp rips from my throat, my whole body jolting at the sensation. Boone swallows the sound with his kiss, his tongue tangling with mine as his fingers press deeper, making sure I take every bit of him.
“Not wasting a fucking drop,” he murmurs against my lips. “It belongs to you.”
I kiss him again, savoring the warmth of his mouth, the way he kisses me like he means it.
“Boone?”
He hums, still kissing me, still lost in the way our bodies fit together, like he never wants to move. “Yeah?”
“Can you untie me now? My arms are kind of falling asleep.”
Boone jerks back, his eyes widening. “Oh, fuck.”
He pushes up instantly, his hands scrambling at the knot, untying it faster than I think I’ve ever seen him do anything.
The second my wrists are free, they drop to my sides, tingling, the blood rushing back.
I flex my fingers, rolling my shoulders, but Boone is already gripping my wrists, turning them over in his hands.
“Holy shit, Lark.” His voice is laced with something close to panic as his thumbs skim over the raw, reddened skin. “Why the hell didn’t you say anything?”
Heat floods my cheeks, my stomach flipping at the way he looks at me, like he’s guilty, like he’s already blaming himself for something I don’t regret at all.
“I’m fine.” I shake my head, flexing my fingers again. “I liked it.”
Boone doesn’t look convinced. His grip tightens just slightly, his brows drawn together. Then, slowly, he lifts my wrist to his mouth and presses a kiss to the inside of it, his lips wet and warm and soft.
“I hurt you.” The words come out low, like he hates even saying them.
“No, you didn’t.” I reach for his face, cradling his jaw, my thumbs brushing against the scruff lining it. “It didn’t hurt. I promise.”
His eyes search mine, like he’s still not sure if he believes me.
So I do the only thing I can—I kiss him.
Fierce and unrestrained, fingers threading into the curls at the nape of his neck, tugging just enough to make him moan into my mouth.
The sound goes straight through me, a delicious shiver settling low in my stomach.
“I don’t want that to be the last time we do that,” I murmur against his lips, my fingers still tangled in his hair, still pulling him closer.
His thumb traces a slow, lazy path along my hip. “Good. Because I was already planning on ruining you for anyone else.”
I laugh against his skin. “Already did, cowboy.”
Boone pulls back slightly, his brow furrowing like he just remembered something. “Wait.”
I watch as he reaches for his jeans, digging into his pocket before pulling out three small yellow daisies, slightly crumpled but still whole.
My heart stumbles.
“You didn’t,” I say, shaking my head, grinning.
His lips tug at the corner, all boyish pride. “I did.”
I take them gently from his fingers, running my thumb over the delicate petals, something warm and achingly familiar unfurling in my chest.
I remember a little boy, sunburned and wild, stuffing fistfuls of these same daisies into my hands every summer.
I remember dirt-streaked cheeks and scraped knees and Boone, always Boone, picking flowers for me like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And now, all these years later, here he is—grown, broader, rougher around the edges, but still him.
Still finding flowers. Still giving them to me.
I swallow, looking up at him. “When did you even find these? I was with you the whole time.”
“When you weren’t paying attention.” He shrugs, stepping closer, plucking the daisies from my hands and tucking them gently behind my ear. His fingers linger in my hair, brushing my cheek, his touch as careful as it is sure.
I let out a quiet laugh, but my chest is tight, my heart doing something ridiculous inside me.
I study him for a second—really study him. The curve of his mouth. The quiet behind his eyes. The man in front of me and the boy I remember overlapping like two versions of the same truth.
“Why’d you do it?” I ask .
His brow pulls slightly. “Do what?”
“All those years,” I say, barely more than a breath. “Why’d you always pick flowers for me?”
He doesn’t answer right away. But after a beat he shrugs, and it comes out easy. Like it’s the simplest thing in the world.
“They reminded me of you. Bright. A little wild. Always reaching for the light.” His eyes flick down to the ones in my hand, then back to mine. “Felt right, bringing sunshine to sunshine.”
And just like that, something inside me folds.
Not from the words themselves, but from the way he says them. So plain. So certain. Like it isn’t a confession, just a fact that’s lived in him for years. Something he’s always known.
There’s no performance in it. No need to be noticed or thanked. Just something simple and steady, like breath.
A boy picking daisies summer after summer.
A man still handing them over like it’s instinct.
He studies me for a long moment, his expression shifting into something softer, something more certain.
“One day,” he murmurs, his thumb grazing along my jaw, “I want all of you, Lark. Not just in moments like this. Not just on borrowed time. I want it all.” His hand slides down, rests against my hip. “I want to keep picking daisies for you for as long as you’ll let me.”
I force myself to breathe through the ache in my chest.
This isn’t like last time.
That’s what I keep telling myself. That’s what I have to believe.
Because I want this—I want him. More than I should, more than is probably safe. Even though it doesn’t make any fucking sense and a big, neon warning sign should be flashing above his head. But logic doesn’t stand a chance against the way he looks at me, against the way he’s always looked at me.
I want Boone Wilding to be the person I wake up next to for the rest of my life.
The one I bicker with over what to watch on TV, the one I grow old with on our porch, rocking chairs side by side.
I want to sit outside at the end of a long day, his hand wrapped around mine, knowing there’s no one else in the world I’d rather be beside.
I want him.
For good.
I exhale slowly, letting my fingers drift to the last daisy still sitting in his palm. He watches me as I pluck it from his grasp, his expression careful, waiting.
I brush a hand through his thick, dark waves, and tuck the daisy behind his ear. My fingers linger against his skin and I let myself soak in the warmth of him, the steadiness.
His lips twitch, his hands finding my waist. “I don’t think this is my look, baby.”
I grin, letting my hands fall to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under my palm.
“That’s what I want too,” I murmur, my voice quieter now. “All of it.”
I glance up at him, eyes searching his. Something flickers across his face, something deep and sure, and then his lips are on mine again.
It’s softer this time, slower—not the desperate, hungry way we always seem to find each other, but something else entirely.
Something certain. Something that makes my chest ache in the best possible way.
When we pull back, I trace my fingers along the daisy tucked behind his ear and bite back a smirk. “You have to keep this here for all of dinner.”
Boone sighs dramatically, shaking his head like I’ve just asked him to carry a hundred-pound sack of feed across the ranch. “You’re gonna owe me for this.”
I arch a brow, trailing a finger down his chest. “Oh yeah? What’s the price?”
His hands tighten at my waist, his voice dropping lower. “I’ll let you know later.”
A shiver runs down my spine, but I force myself to roll my eyes, pushing at his chest lightly. “Come on, cowboy. Dinner’s waiting.”
Boone grins wider before stealing one last kiss.
I don’t know how we got here, how after all these years we found our way back to each other. But standing here, the feel of his hands on my skin, the warmth of his breath still lingering against my lips, I know one thing for sure.
I don’t want to lose this.
Not this time.
Not ever again.