Chapter Fourteen – Lark #2
This time, nothing is restrained about it. No hesitation. No careful line he’s trying not to cross. Just heat. And pressure. And the unmistakable shift from tension to something that’s already gone too far to stop.
He lifts me off the counter again, my legs wrapping around him automatically like my body already knows where it belongs.
The man doesn’t even flinch, though I know his ribs must be killing him.
Each step he takes sends a jolt through me, the friction between us turning sharp and overwhelming in the best way.
We don’t make it far.
He presses me back against the wall, his forehead dropping briefly to mine like he’s trying to get a handle on something that’s already slipping.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “I need to see you.”
The words hit harder than they should, but I don’t argue. Don’t hesitate. Just let him.
His hands move again—sure, controlled even when everything else about this isn’t—and when he turns me, guiding me forward until my palms brace against the wall, a sharp pulse of anticipation ripples through me. The connection between us shifts again. Less explosive. More… inevitable.
My eyes close, my head tipping forward as everything else fades out except him. The way he touches me. The way he pays attention to every reaction like it matters. Like I matter.
His hands move without hesitation, finding the button of my jeans like he’s done this a hundred times before—even though I know he hasn’t. My breath catches as his knuckles brush the soft skin just beneath the waistband, the touch light but deliberate enough to send a sharp wave of heat through me.
A frame rattles somewhere to my left, then all I can focus on is his mouth. The first press of his lips against the top of my spine steals whatever breath I had left. It’s not rushed. Not frantic like before. Slower. Intentional.
Like he’s learning me. Feeling his way through every reaction, every shift in my body, like it matters. And maybe that’s what undoes me most. Not just the touch, but the attention.
My eyes fall shut as he moves lower, each brush of his mouth sending another ripple through me, each second making it harder to remember why I should be pulling away.
I don’t. I don’t even try.
His grip tightens just enough as he works my jeans down, the fabric dragging slowly, leaving me both exposed and unsteady in a way that has nothing to do with balance.
If it were anyone else, I would’ve folded in on myself. Stepped back. Covered up. But this is Holt. And the way his hands move—firm, sure, reverent in a way that doesn’t make sense given everything else about him—keeps me exactly where I am. Exactly where he wants me.
A quiet sound slips from me when his mouth finds my skin again, sharper this time, enough to make my body react before I can stop it.
Everything tightens. Everything focuses. My thoughts scatter, slipping further out of reach with every second he doesn’t let me pull away.
I should stop him. I know I should. But my body betrays me, leaning into the feeling instead, chasing it before it disappears.
I shift slightly, more instinct than decision, and his hand steadies me, firm at my hip, grounding me in place.
When his touch disappears, the loss hits instantly, a quiet, involuntary sound escaping me before I can catch it.
“Holt—”
I don’t even know what I was going to say.
He turns me back toward him before I can figure it out. His hands settle at my waist, steadying, waiting—but his eyes…they’re different now. Darker. Focused in a way that makes my pulse jump.
“Step out,” he says, low and controlled.
And I do. Not because I have to, but because I want to. Because somewhere between the first touch and now, I stopped pretending I didn’t.
I’m suddenly aware of everything—the way he’s looking at me, the way the air feels heavier between us, the way there’s no space left for second-guessing.
No pretending this is just tension anymore.
His hands slide back to my hips, slower this time, deliberate, like he’s giving me the chance to stop him. I don’t. I can’t. Because I know—whatever this is between us… There’s no walking it back.
Not after this. Not after him. And that—that’s the part that undoes me.
I don’t know where to look. Or where to start. Holt watches me like I’m something he’s trying to figure out and devour at the same time, and the intensity of it makes my pulse jump before he even touches me.
My skin feels too tight. Too aware. Too exposed under the weight of his gaze.
His breath brushes against my stomach first, warm and uneven, like he’s trying to steady himself and failing. The soft drag of his nose against the fabric of my bra sends a shiver up my spine, slow and unrelenting.
I inhale sharply, and he notices. Of course he does. Holt notices everything.
His hands settle at my hips, firm enough to hold me in place but not enough to trap me. Not yet. The contrast makes it worse—the control wrapped in restraint.
Like he’s giving me the chance to stop this.
I don’t take it.
My fingers find his shoulders, gripping lightly at first, then tighter when his mouth follows the same path his touch just mapped. The first press of his lips is slow. Deliberate.
Not rushed. Not careless. It’s that—more than anything—that makes my knees feel unsteady.
My head tips back slightly, my breath catching as he moves lower, each shift of his mouth pulling another reaction from me before I can stop it.
“Holt—” His name barely makes it out.
He pauses, just for a second, then his hands tighten at my hips, pulling me closer, grounding me again before I can drift too far into the feeling.
I should stop him. I should remember why this is a bad idea. Instead, I lean into him. Because I want to see what he does next.
His mouth moves again, slower now, more intentional, like he’s testing the edge of something—mine or his, I’m not sure.
My grip on him tightens. Everything sharpens.
Every breath.
Every touch.
Every second he doesn’t pull away.
My body reacts before my brain catches up, heat pooling low, my legs shifting instinctively as if searching for something I’m not ready to name.
And that’s when he stops. Completely.
The loss is immediate.
Jarring.
My eyes open, my breath uneven as I look down at him.
“What—”
His hands slide up my sides, steadying me, anchoring me back in place as he lifts his gaze to mine.
There’s something different in his expression now. Not gone. Not softened. Controlled.
“You’re not ready for more,” he says, voice low, rough around the edges.
The words hit heavier than they should.
“Don’t decide that for me,” I shoot back, even though my voice comes out thinner than I intend.
His thumb traces slowly along my hip, not moving away, not letting me step out of the moment completely.
“I’m not deciding anything,” he says. “I’m stopping before this turns into something you can regret.”
Damn him. He’s not wrong. And I hate that he’s not wrong.
My breath steadies slightly, but the tension doesn’t fade. It lingers between us, heavier now, charged in a different way.
“Or something you can’t,” I counter.
His gaze narrows at that. For a second, I think he might ignore it.
Push anyway.
Instead, his hands settle more firmly at my waist, grounding, steady.
“I don’t start something I’m not willing to finish,” he says quietly.
A beat.
“This isn’t something I rush.”
The air shifts again. Not less intense. Just… deeper.
More dangerous in a way that has nothing to do with what almost happened—and everything to do with what will.
Because now I know.
When Holt decides to take that next step—there won’t be anything halfway about it.