Chapter Twenty-two – Holt #3
I lean one shoulder against the doorway and fold my arms loosely. “Do I need to?”
“No.”
She pours tea instead of coffee. Steam curls up around her face, softening nothing.
“Then why are you making me work for it?”
“Because I’m trying real hard not to be the guy who tells you what to do every five minutes.”
That gets a low sound out of her that might be a laugh if it had less tension in it.
“You fail at that pretty often.”
“Yeah.”
She turns then, mug in both hands, and leans back against the opposite counter. The kitchen light catches the gold-brown in her eyes and the faint flush still high in her cheeks from the run through the rain.
“Yet,” she says.
“Yet what?”
“Yet I still came back here.”
I step closer before I mean to. Not enough to crowd her. Enough to feel the shift in the room.
“That because of the farm,” I ask, “or because of me?”
I don’t give her room to deflect. I need to know. And maybe I need her to choose me again.
She looks down into her mug, then back up. The storm rolls over the roof in a long, steady rush.
“Both,” she says.
Nothing in me is built to hear that and stay careful.
I stop in front of her. Close enough now that I can take the mug from her hands and set it aside before she spills it when her fingers start shaking. Close enough to see the exact second she realizes I noticed and decides not to deny it.
“Lark.”
Her name in my mouth has changed over the last couple of weeks. It used to feel like a caution. Then a question. Now it feels like claiming and prayer and trouble all at once.
She exhales softly, and her hands find my shirt as if they already know their place there.
Outside, thunder rolls somewhere farther off, lower now. The worst of the storm is still headed our way, but the first smattering has moved east. What’s left is the aftermath.
Inside, the distance between us is reduced to nothing by inches. She tips her face up. This time, when I kiss her, there’s no uncertainty in it.
Her mouth opens under mine with a soft, immediate surrender that hits like a match dropped into dry brush. Heat moves through me so fast it almost feels like another kind of alarm—something instinctive and urgent and impossible to ignore once it starts.
I back her up one slow step until her hips meet the counter. Just enough to feel the edge of it and know exactly how little space there is left to pretend this could still be simple.
Her fingers slide higher, catching at the back of my neck, and every point of contact rewrites something in me. The storm. The fires. Kenzie. Nolan. The station. All of it still exists. None of it disappears. But none of it matters enough to stop this either.
When I finally pull back, it’s only far enough to breathe and look at her. Her eyes are dark with everything we’ve both been holding too long.
“Tell me to stop,” I say.
She shakes her head once.
“No.”
That one word opens a door I don’t think either of us can close again.
The thunder cracks so hard it rattles the windows. For a second, everything goes white—the flash of lightning cutting through the kitchen, catching Lark in the doorway like something I don’t deserve to touch.
Then the lights flicker. And when they steady again, she’s still looking at me like she hasn’t decided whether to run or stay. That’s my last warning.
I cross the space between us before I can think better of it.
Her breath catches when I reach her, my hand sliding to her waist, pulling her into me like I need the contact to stay grounded. The storm rolls again outside, lower this time, and the sound settles somewhere deep in my chest.
“Tell me to stop,” I say, even though I don’t slow down.
She doesn’t.
Her hands find my shirt instead, gripping, pulling me closer like she’s already made the decision I’m trying to give her.
That’s it. That’s all it takes.
My mouth finds hers again—harder this time, less careful. Weeks of restraint snap tight between us, every second I’ve spent trying not to think about her crashing straight through whatever control I thought I had.
Lightning flashes again. The room flickers. And I don’t give a damn.
My hand slides to the back of her thigh, lifting her just enough that she gasps against my mouth, her body reacting before she can catch it. I feel it everywhere—the shift, the heat, the way she presses closer like she’s chasing something she doesn’t want to name yet.
“Bedroom,” I mutter, more to myself than her.
She doesn’t argue. Doesn’t hesitate. That might be the most dangerous part.
I don’t carry her—not fully. Just enough that she stays close as we move, my hand steady at her back, guiding, grounding. The lights flicker again as we pass the hallway, the storm pressing harder now, rain hitting the roof in sharp, uneven bursts.
By the time we make it to the bedroom, I’m already past the point of thinking clearly.
The door barely makes it shut before she’s pulling at my shirt again, her fingers impatient now, less controlled than before. Good. Because I’m right there with her.
I help her this time—dragging the fabric over my head, tossing it somewhere behind me without looking. Her eyes drop for half a second, and the way her breath shifts tells me everything I need to know.
“Still want me to stop?” I ask, voice rough.
She shakes her head. That’s enough.
My hands move to her waist, slower now, deliberate, giving her time to pull away. She doesn’t, so I keep going.
My mouth leaves hers, tracing lower, dragging over her jaw, her neck—feeling the way she reacts, the way her body answers before she can stop it. I take my time there, longer than I should, because I want to remember it.
Want to memorize exactly how she sounds when she lets herself feel this.
Her hands find my hair, tugging just enough to make me look up. There’s something different in her eyes now. Less guarded. More…mine. That thought drops in my chest harder than it should.
I shift, guiding her back a step until she hits the edge of the bed. She doesn’t fight it. Doesn’t question it.
Just let me take control in a way I haven’t let myself do with anyone in a long time.
The storm crashes again outside, loud enough to shake the frame of the house, and she startles slightly.
My hand tightens at her hip automatically.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur.
And I mean it in more ways than one.
I lower her onto the mattress slowly, following her down, my body braced over hers, close enough that I can feel the heat of her through the layers we haven’t gotten rid of yet.
Too close yet not close enough.
My mouth moves again—slower now, more focused—down the line of her throat, her collarbone—my sanity isn’t going to last much longer.
I keep my arm between her and the mattress, crawling above her body as we move.
It takes very little effort to tug her shirt over her head and toss it haphazardly over to the corner of the room.
Deftly, I maneuver the hooks of her bra and slide the straps down her arm.
When the material catches, I yank it free, growling as I chuck it over my shoulder, anxiously awaiting my first glimpse of her breasts.
And my god, she’s glorious. Each of her breasts drapes to the side, and I have an overwhelming compulsion to taste her pert nipples.
I lean forward, suckling at the delicate skin, swirling my tongue around the pink tips.
Her heels push against my ass, urging me closer, but I have other ideas to drive her as crazy as she’s made me over the past couple of weeks.
I wiggle one of my hands between our bodies, wedging it beneath her pants.
I stroke the soaked material of her panties on the outside, then push the material aside when I can’t hold back any longer.
The desire to feel her skin is overwhelming.
Her heat intensifies as I rub the slick skin of her pussy, until I nearly feel scorched.
I slip a finger inside her tight sheath, stroking the soft, slick walls, loving every gentle noise and purr that escapes Lark’s lips.
As her hips begin to rock against my palm, I add another digit.
I need to make sure that she’s ready for me, ready for everything.
I try to slip my hand free and slow down what we’re doing, but Lark’s hand grips my wrist and holds my hand against her sex and clit.
“If you so much as move your hand away, I won’t be held accountable for my actions,” she fumes, and of course, it only turns me on more. I’m learning this wicked side of her turns me on just as much as her sweet and caring side.
With my thumb, I flick her swollen clit, watching as her head falls back against the bedding, her eyes clenched.
I feel her walls begin to pulsate as I continue to caress her tight pearl.
Lark’s legs clamp around my thighs as her release hits.
I’m mesmerized by the O-shape of her mouth.
My need to claim her becomes overwhelming, the need to make her mine in every sense.
And before she can finish her release, I strip her bare of her clothes, reach for a condom I keep tucked in my wallet because there is no way in hell I’m reaching over to my nightstand, and cover myself with the condom.
Her breath stutters, and her body arches slightly into me as I glide my shaft into her sex.
And that…that almost breaks me.
I shift farther, my hands steadying her, holding her in place as I take my time, dragging the moment out longer than I should, longer than either of us needs.
Her hand tightens in my hair, her voice breaking slightly when she says my name.
Inch by excruciating inch, I slide my cock inside her pussy. A sheen of sweat emerges on my skin as I hold back from thrusting all the way inside. Her body needs some time to adjust and stretch to my size, but I’m barely hanging on as I fill her up completely.
Nothing has ever felt as good as this…as heavenly.