Chapter 38
THIRTY-EIGHT
DAHLIA
Slow. Sweet. A question asked and answered in the press of lips, the soft slide of tongues, the way his hands came up to cradle her face like she was made of spun glass.
Dahlia tasted butter and possibility on his lips. She leaned into him, letting herself fall, letting him catch her. Her fingers found the hem of his shirt, brushing against the skin beneath, and Cal made a low sound in the back of his throat that sent electricity racing down her spine.
“Dahlia.” Her name was a prayer on his lips. “Tell me to stop.”
“No.” She kissed him again, harder. “Don’t stop.”
He hauled her into his lap with effortless strength, her thighs bracketing his hips, her hands braced on his shoulders. The position pressed them flush—heat to heat, heartbeat to heartbeat—and Dahlia felt him harden against her, wanting her with an intensity that made her dizzy.
His hands slid up her back, beneath her shirt, fingers tracing the line of her spine. She arched into the touch, gasping against his mouth. Every point of contact felt electric—his palms on her skin, his lips trailing from her mouth to her jaw to the sensitive spot beneath her ear.
“I want—” She couldn’t finish the sentence. Couldn’t think clearly enough to form words.
“I know.” His voice was rough, strained. “I want it too. More than I can say.”
He stood in one fluid motion, lifting her with him, and Dahlia wrapped her legs around his waist instinctively.
Two steps had her back against the counter, his body a wall of heat and muscle between her thighs.
She pulled at his shirt, needing to feel more of him, and he broke the kiss long enough to yank it over his head.
The bandages were still there—white gauze wrapped around his ribs, covering the wounds that had nearly killed him two days ago. Dahlia traced them with gentle fingers, watching his jaw tighten.
“Does it hurt?”
“Right now, I don’t care.” But he caught her hand before she could explore further, bringing her fingers to his lips. “Not tonight.”
Dahlia’s pulse hammered. “What?”
“Not like this.” He rested his forehead against hers, both of them breathing hard.
“I want you. Desperately. More than I’ve wanted anything in longer than I can remember.
But not in a rush. Not when we’re both half-mad with exhaustion and covered in flour.
When this happens—” He kissed her quietly, a promise.
“—I want to do it right. I want to take my time. I want to give you everything.”
The oven timer chose that moment to go off—a shrill beep that shattered the charged silence.
They both laughed, foreheads still pressed close, bodies still tangled in the aftermath of interrupted passion.
“Croissants,” Dahlia murmured.
“Croissants,” Cal agreed. He stepped back reluctantly, retrieving his shirt from the floor and pulling it back on. The bandages disappeared, but the memory of them lingered. “To be continued?”
Dahlia slid off the counter on shaky legs. “Definitely. But, Cal?”
He paused, looking back at her.
“I’m going to hold you to that promise.”
His smile went dark with anticipation. “I’m counting on it.”
The croissants were imperfect.
Lopsided, with uneven layers and a slightly burnt spot on one corner where they’d been too distracted to rotate the pan. But they were golden and flaky and still hot from the oven, and when Dahlia bit into one, butter melted across her tongue in a rush of simple pleasure.
They sat on the flour-covered floor again, shoulders pressed close, passing croissants between them as the clock crept toward 4:00 a.m. Cal ate like a man who’d forgotten food could be enjoyable—closing his eyes at the first bite, making a sound of satisfaction that shouldn’t have been as attractive as it was.
“These are incredible,” he said around a mouthful.
“They’re mediocre at best.” But she was smiling. “The layers didn’t develop properly. Too much handling.”
“They’re perfect.” He licked butter from his thumb with an unselfconsciousness that made heat curl in her belly. “Everything about tonight has been perfect.”
Dahlia leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. His arm came around her immediately, like it belonged there.
“Paris.”
“Paris,” he agreed.
“I haven’t said yes yet.”
“But you’re going to.” He pressed a kiss to her hair. “Because you want it. Because your grandmother wanted it for you.”
Dahlia closed her eyes. Finally chasing a dream.
“What about Magnus? The council hearing. Everything that’s still unresolved.”
“We deal with Magnus first. Win the hearing. Secure the territory.” His arm tightened around her. “And then you go to Paris. And I’ll be here when you get back. Or—” his brow rose, “or I come with you.”
She sat up, staring at him. “What?”
“I said maybe I don’t go back to Seattle.” His lips curved. “I didn’t say I had to stay in Haven Shores. The sleuth can survive without me for a while. Margot’s more than capable. And I hear Paris has excellent opportunities for a bear who needs to learn how to rest.”
Dahlia couldn’t speak. The image rose unbidden—Paris in winter, croissants in tiny cafés, Cal beside her as she learned and grew and finally, finally chased the dream her grandmother had given her.
“You’d do that?” Her voice cracked. “For me?”
“For us.” He cupped her face, thumb brushing her cheekbone.
“I spent years building an empire so I wouldn’t have to need anyone.
But here’s the thing about empires—they don’t keep you warm at night.
They don’t make you laugh until your sides hurt.
They don’t sit beside you on flour-covered floors eating mediocre croissants at three a.m.”
He kissed her—soft and certain and full of promise.
“Choose Paris.” He breathed the words against her lips. “Choose yourself. And let me choose you right back.”
When Dahlia finally fell asleep that night—curled in her own bed, still smelling of flour and butter and him—she dreamed of croissants in Paris.
And the dream didn’t feel impossible anymore.