Chapter 8 Rosemarie
EIGHT
ROSEMARIE
“You can’t make those noises, Rose.”
His voice was threaded with restraint. Like it was yanked from somewhere deep in his chest. But it was the way he said Rose again that made something low in my belly tighten and clench.
Not Rosie. Not the nickname I’d heard my whole life. Not the sweet, bubbly version of myself everyone expected.
No. It was Rose.
And coming from his mouth, it didn’t sound like a name.
It sounded like a promise.
My body froze, every limb still, but inside—I was chaos. My heart thumped like a trapped animal, wild and frenzied, beating against my chest. His fingers were still in my hair, his other hand warm and solid on my knee, thumb still making slow circles that were not helping my current state.
I swallowed hard. “I—I didn’t mean to,” I mumbled, the words catching. That little moan had slipped out without permission, without warning. Like the truth sneaking out past a lie. “You just … Your hands are …”
“My hands are what, sweetheart?” he asked in a tone that screamed he was barely holding himself together.
God. Gavin Miller was dangerous.
Not because he was older.
Not because he was my dad’s best friend.
But because of what I felt sitting next to him right now. Because of how safe and seen I felt—despite the fact that we were teetering on a very, very precarious ledge. A slightly forbidden—okay, maybe more than slightly—drop to what right now seems like it would be worth all the risk.
And, God help me, I wanted to freefall from that ledge.
I should’ve changed before dinner. I should’ve worn a bra. I should’ve just thanked him and locked the shop after he walked out. I should’ve climbed those stairs, made some dinner, gone to bed, and forgotten the way his eyes lingered on me all day.
But I didn’t. I wanted this.
I wanted him.
And that terrified me almost as much as it thrilled me.
“I’m sorry,” I said, my voice smaller than I meant it to be, raw and honest in a way that left me feeling a little too exposed. “I didn’t think it’d be weird—inviting you to dinner, I mean. I just … I wanted to thank you. For today. You didn’t have to stay and help.”
He leaned in. Just a fraction. Barely enough to call it movement—but I felt it. The heat, the pull.
“And you didn’t have to make it so hard for me to leave.”
My eyes shot to his.
He meant that.
He wanted to be here. With me.
“Gavin …” My voice snagged on something sharp in my throat. I swallowed and tried again. “This is probably a bad idea.”
He smiled, and it wasn’t a smirk. Nothing cocky or smug in it. It was softer, sadder. Like he knew this could be potentially doomed but couldn’t walk away. “Yeah. It probably is.”
“So why are you still so close?”
He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at me like he was memorizing something. The rain had picked up, beating steadily against the roof of the truck.
“Because I haven’t wanted anything this bad in years,” he said quietly.
My lips parted, but nothing came out. My brain couldn’t find a single word that would match the weight of that confession.
I blinked and tried again. “I’ve never …” He waited, still and steady. All the while, his hand never left my knee. “I’ve never wanted someone like this, either,” I admitted.
I didn’t tell him what I probably should have led with: that I was a virgin.
Not yet. I wasn’t ready for the air to change. I wasn’t ready to feel small or inexperienced or like a girl playing dress-up in a woman’s skin. I just wanted to feel this. I wanted to let it exist without pressure or expectation.
But something in his expression shifted anyway.
Did he know? Was it that obvious?
He let out a slow breath as he closed the space between us across the front seat. His forehead touched mine, grounding me, settling me like an anchor dropped in rough water. His fingers were still tangled in my hair, gentle but sure.
“I’m not gonna rush this, Rose. I swear to God. But if you don’t want this—if you want me to back off—”
“I don’t.”
It came out too fast.
Too loud.
He pulled back just enough to look at me, his blue-grey eyes dark and blown with want. “I’m going to kiss you now, sweetheart.”
I nodded because all the words I’d learned in my twenty-seven years of life suddenly vanished from my vocabulary.
He didn’t waste a second. His mouth met mine and the world fell away.
It started slow—his lips soft but firm, coaxing me to open for him. I did, eagerly.
And then our tongues touched—and something inside me snapped.
He growled low in his throat, primal and deep, and suddenly I wasn’t being kissed anymore. I was being claimed.
There was no other word for it.
He owned my mouth, kissing me with the kind of hunger that made me feel dizzy, electric. Like I’d been waiting my whole life for this one perfect kind of destruction.
His hand slid from my knee up to my side, spanning wide across my ribs, thumb grazing just beneath the soft underside of my breast. I gasped into him—and he swallowed the sound like it belonged to him. Like it fed him.
His other hand was still in my hair, fingers tugging gently, guiding me, angling me. It was all control—his. And I wanted it. I craved it.
He was everywhere.
In my mouth.
On my skin.
Inside my head.
And I never wanted him to stop.