Chapter 10 #2
Want thrums underneath all of it.
"I keep thinking about kissing you," I admit.
She sets her wine down carefully. Turns to face me fully. "Then kiss me."
It's like breaking through ice into open water.
I lean in—slow at first, testing—but when she meets me halfway, it turns hungry. Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer. My hands find her waist, slide under her sweater to bare skin. She's warm and soft and I've been wanting this for so damn long.
She shifts, kicking the blanket aside and swinging one leg over to straddle my lap, and my thoughts scatter.
"Is this okay?" I manage, voice wrecked.
"More than okay," she breathes against my mouth.
I kiss her again, deeper. Her hips move and I groan into her mouth, hands sliding up her back. She tastes like wine and desire and every unspoken thing between us. Her nails dig into my shoulders. My pulse hammers everywhere we touch.
For a moment, there's nothing held back. Just us. Just this.
Then—
CREAK.
We freeze. Heads snap toward the stairs.
Footsteps. Emma's door opening. The patter of small feet. The bathroom door shutting.
The moment shatters.
I drop my forehead to June's shoulder with a frustrated groan. She laughs—breathless, flushed, still straddling my lap like she hasn't quite processed we need to stop.
"We should probably—" she starts.
"Yeah," I agree. My hands don't move from her waist.
"Emma could come down."
"I know." I finally let go, and she slides off my lap, straightening her sweater with shaking hands. Her hair's a mess. Her lips are swollen. She looks thoroughly dishevelled in the best possible way.
She catches me staring and her cheeks flame. "What?"
"Nothing." I grin. "You're gorgeous."
"Shut up," she mutters—but she's smiling.
She settles back beside me, not quite touching but close enough. Her hand finds mine on the cushion.
"This isn't over," she says quietly, eyes bold in the TV's blue light.
"I'm counting on it."
We sit there, not really watching whatever's on the screen. Hands linked. The electricity still buzzing just beneath the skin.
When we finally head to bed, my pulse is still racing. She changes in the bathroom while I pull on pajama pants, and when she emerges in pajama shorts and a tank top, nipples peaked, I have to remind myself Emma's just down the hall.
We slide into bed on opposite sides. Careful. Polite.
But then June rolls toward me, and I open my arm, and she tucks herself against my chest like she was made to fit there.
"Goodnight, Adam," she whispers.
I press a kiss to her hair. "Goodnight, June."
The electricity hums between us. Waiting—but impatient.
Soon.
***
Sunday morning comes slowly, the kind of pale winter sunlight that never quite warms the rooms. Emma's already at the kitchen table, sticky-haired and squinting at the pancake batter bowl like it might contain the secrets of the universe.
June hovers by the coffeemaker, cradling her mug like it's the only thing keeping her upright.
I slept—technically—but it barely counts.
Too many hours lying awake, hard. Heart pounding, willing myself to calm down.
Now June keeps stealing glances at me while I fumble with the pancake ingredients, and my hands still buzz with the memory of her straddling my lap last night, the sound of her breathless laugh, the way she pressed close and made it so damn hard to stop.
Emma swings her legs, fork at the ready. "These are gonna be the best pancakes EVER, Daddy."
I grin like a helpless, love-drunk idiot. "We'll see, princess."
Out of the corner of my eye, June smiles into her coffee, not quite meeting my gaze. There's a flush high on her cheeks that makes it impossible not to remember the feel of her skin under my hands.
My stomach does a slow flip.
I nearly drop the spatula, catching it at the last second with a fumble that would embarrass a rookie firefighter. June's quiet laugh makes it worse—or better. I can't tell anymore.
She's wearing that blue sweater I love. Her hair's a mess of soft waves in that sultry bob of hers. Everything about her radiates nerves and comfort at the same time, and I want to pull her back upstairs and pick up exactly where we left off.
Emma chatters through breakfast—something about movies, teaching June to play Mario Kart, how Maya looked "ready to pop like a balloon" last night. Completely oblivious to the tension crackling between June and me.
After breakfast, Emma rockets off to her room—a tornado of noise and bare feet—something about finding her "special dragon drawing."
For the first time all morning, we're alone.
June leans against the counter, mug in both hands. I cross to her slowly, deliberately.
"About last night—" I start.
She nods quickly. "We got a little carried away."
"Yeah." I step closer. "But I'm not sorry."
Her eyes flick up to mine. Her smile goes crooked. "Me neither."
We stand there, heat curling between us in the quiet kitchen. Then she says, softer, "We can't—not with Emma in the house."
I reach up and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, fingers lingering at her jaw. "I know."
My voice drops. "But when we're alone..."