Chapter 30 – Sylvara
I lock the shop door with one hand and let the key hang from the ring on my finger.
The sun’s nearly down, bleeding copper into the alley between our garage and the back of the old bakery. The sky stretches wide and honey-colored, pulling long shadows between the walls like silk laid across brick. Wild jasmine winds along the fencepost, blooming just enough to scent the breeze.
I glance back over my shoulder.
He’s wiping grease off his hands with a rag, standing half in shadow, forearms streaked from the day’s work. Shirt clinging to him like it’s as tired as he is. His hair’s messed from pushing it back too many times, and his focus is down on the cloth like the rest of the world doesn’t need to exist until he’s done cleaning up.
“Hey,” I say, voice low, just enough to cut through the hum of the warm night.
He looks up.
I crook a finger.
“Come with me.”
He watches me for half a second longer than necessary. Then tosses the rag on the hood of the truck and follows.
The alley behind the shop is narrow, quiet, half-forgotten by everyone except us. The sun paints the brick in gold, and I lean back against it, the heat still caught in the stone. My back arches just enough to feel it through my tank top. I tug him closer by the front of his shirt.
He doesn’t resist.
He never does when I touch him like that.
“You remember what today is?” I ask.
He smirks. “How could I forget? You looked at me like you wanted to kill me.”
“I did.”
“And I think I fell in love right then.”
My mouth quirks. “You have a very specific taste in women.”
“I have exactly one.”
I pull him the last inch forward and kiss him.
At first, it’s all teeth and heat—teasing, playful, lips brushing, biting, the sound of a low laugh trapped in my throat. His hands slide to my waist, fingertips tracing the curve of my hips like he’s memorizing them for the thousandth time.
But then the kiss deepens.
His breath catches.
Mine folds into his.
And just like that, the laughter turns into something slower. Thicker. Hungrier.
I used to think passion meant destruction.
But this… this is creation.
My back presses harder against the wall. He crowds into me, one hand finding the small of my back, the other cupping the side of my face like I might vanish if he blinks. My fingers curl into his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer.
I tilt my head, open my mouth to him.
He kisses me like the world was rebuilt just so this moment could exist.
Like every fight, every scar, every betrayal was worth it if this is where it led.
His hand slips under my tank top, palm skimming over bare skin, warm and sure. I lean into it, a quiet hum slipping from my throat. My fingers drift down his chest, over fabric and muscle, until I reach the line of his belt.
He sucks in a breath against my mouth.
“Here?” he murmurs, voice gone rough.
I smile against his lips. “No one comes back here but us.”
He kisses me again, deeper now, and I taste the last of the sunlight in his mouth.
My shirt is up around my ribs, his hands under it, fingertips ghosting over every inch of skin like he’s painting me with pressure. I reach between us, unbuttoning his jeans, my knuckles brushing the heat of him through the fabric.
His lips drop to my neck.
He breathes in like I’m the only air he wants.
My head falls back against the wall, and I feel his teeth graze my collarbone—just enough to light that fire low in my belly, the one that’s only ever been his to strike.
His hands slide down, over my hips, beneath the waistband of my shorts.
And when his fingers find me, I gasp.
Wet. Ready. Already there.
He grins against my skin.
“Always,” he says.
He sinks two fingers into me, slow and steady.
My hands brace on his shoulders.
My hips rock forward, chasing it, grounding myself in the ache, the stretch, the spiral of pleasure climbing fast and sure through my spine.
He moves just right—curling, pressing, his thumb teasing that spot that makes my thighs shake.
I moan against his mouth.
He swallows the sound like a promise.
My hands find his belt. I tug. He groans.
We make quick work of the rest.
He lifts me—just enough—and my back slides higher against the wall, brick scraping my shoulder blades, thighs locking around his waist.
He pushes into me in one slow thrust.
And everything else disappears.
It’s not frantic.
Not rushed.
It’s steady.
Certain.
Each stroke is deep, every grind of his hips drawing out more heat, more gasps, more whispered words that don’t need to make sense.
My hands grip his shoulders, then his hair, then his face.
His mouth is everywhere—jaw, neck, my lips, my breast.
We move like this is the only place we’ve ever belonged.
Like this is the first time and the hundredth.
When I come, it hits like heat through cracked stone—slow, then sudden, and full of light.
I bury my face in his shoulder, bite down, muffling the cry.
He follows a moment later, hips stuttering, breath breaking across my skin.
We don’t speak.
Not for a while.
Just hold.
Just breathe.
Just be.
When he finally pulls back, he doesn’t go far.
His forehead rests against mine, and he whispers, “Still glad you didn’t kill me?”
I laugh softly, tracing the line of his collarbone with a fingertip.
“Depends on the day.”
He presses a kiss to my cheek.
“Today?”
“Today,” I say, brushing his hair back from his forehead, “I think I’d rather keep you.”