Dalton
Hampton, Virginia
The door shuts behind them, the quiet settling almost instantly.
For a moment I just stand there, listening to the sound of Hadley’s voice drifting faintly from the walkway, the easy rhythm between her and Kyler is something I envy. Not between a father and his daughter, more because he’s had this whole beautiful life with Ivy.
I don’t think I realized how tightly I’ve been holding myself together around him. But the sound of his truck’s ignition as he turns it on and drives off stirs something inside me—something instinctive and possessive in a way I usually keep on a very short leash.
I turn back toward the kitchen and find her already watching me.
There’s color high on her cheeks, her fingers loosely wrapped around the edge of the counter like she’s bracing herself for something she can’t quite name.
“You feeling okay?” I ask, the question automatic now, the same one I’ve asked at least a dozen times a day since Saturday.
“I’m okay,” she assures me softly.
She’s been saying that for days. And I know she means it, but the image of her in that hospital bed hasn’t left my head.
The bruise at her temple is mostly faded now, a faint shadow hidden beneath carefully arranged hair, but I still see the version of her sitting under harsh fluorescent lights, looking shaken in a way that made something in my chest tighten so hard it was painful.
I haven’t touched her the way I want to since.
Not because I don’t want to. Because something about seeing her hurt flipped a switch I didn’t know I had.
“You don’t have to keep checking,” she says quietly, a small smile touching her mouth.
“I’m going to anyway,” I reply.
Her lips press together briefly, like she’s deciding something. “Kyler called you my boyfriend,” she says finally, voice softer than usual.
I lean back slightly against the counter across from her, arms folding loosely as I watch her. “He did.”
“And you didn’t correct him.”
“No.”
She shifts her weight faintly, fingers brushing absently against the hem of her cropped sweater. “That didn’t…bother you?”
The question lands heavier than she probably intends.
“No,” I say simply.
Her eyes lift to mine again. “Does that mean you are?”
My heart rate kicks up. “I thought that was fairly obvious,” I say quietly.
Her breath catches slightly, the reaction immediate. “I just didn’t want to assume,” she admits.
I push away from the counter slowly, stepping closer, giving her time to move away if she wants to.
“You can assume,” I tell her, voice lower now.
The air between us shifts. Subtle, but unmistakable.
Her pulse flickers visibly at the base of her throat. “You’ve been very…restrained,” she says carefully.
“That was intentional.”
“I told you I’m fine.”
“I know you did.”
“And I am.”
“I know,” I repeat.
But knowing and believing aren’t always the same thing.
At this moment though she really does seem okay. Steady. Safe. Mostly whole.
And entirely mine.
That thought comes uninvited and unfiltered.
“You promise you’re sure?” My hand comes up almost automatically, fingertips brushing lightly along the side of her neck where her pulse beats steady and strong. “No dizziness? No headaches?”
Her eyes hold mine, soft but steady. “I promise.”
My thumb drifts just slightly, barely grazing the sensitive skin beneath her ear, and her breath changes almost immediately. That tiny reaction hits me low in my gut.
Damn. I’ve missed touching her without worrying about hurting her.
“I think I’ll be happy when he heads back to North Carolina,” I admit.
She snorts, her brows pulling together slightly. “Kyler?”
“Yes. But not because I don’t want him around you. Not because I’m some possessive prick,” I clarify. “He just represents so much hurt that you had to live through.”
She takes my face in her hands, her golden eyes locking with mine. “He’s Hadley’s dad and will always be a part of my life, but it’s not like that between us, Dalton. He was hard to let go of. But I promise you, I have.”
My jaw flexes from the sudden awareness that someone else had this life with her before I did. That someone else still gets pieces of her world.
My mouth brushes hers slowly at first. But deepens as her fingers curl into the front of my flight suit, her body pressing into mine with a softness that feels anything but fragile.
I’ve been careful with her for days. But right now, she feels warm and steady beneath my hands, responding to every touch like she’s been waiting for this just as much as I have.
I tilt her slightly, easing the sweater off her shoulders.
My fingertips graze the soft skin between her leggings and cropped tank, brushing over her ribs and down toward the curve of her hip.
Her breath catches, hitching in a way that makes me painfully hard.
Contact becomes intention, and intention becomes need.
“You’re sure?” I murmur against her mouth.
“Yes,” she breathes instantly.
I slide my hand higher, letting my thumb trace the delicate line of her ribs, feeling her arch instinctively, pressing herself into my palm.
I lift her easily onto the counter, needing her closer, needing to feel the way she fits against me without the barrier of distance.
Her legs instinctively wrap around my waist, the movement natural, familiar, electric.
She moves against me, soft, eager, hungry, matching me in rhythm before we even start.
Her forehead rests briefly against mine, breath warm against my lips.
“You have no idea,” I murmur, voice rougher now, “how hard it’s been not touching you like this.”
Her answer is a soft exhale as her fingers slowly unzip the top half of my flight suit. “I promise you, I do.”
My hands move carefully but with growing confidence, relearning the shape of her, reacquainting myself with the way she responds to my touch.
I slip a strap of her tank top off her shoulder, lowering it to reveal her perfect breast, nipple peaking and sensitive under my thumb.
I brush it softly before taking it into my mouth, tasting her, marking her, and she gasps—a sound that twists in my chest and burrows deep.
“Dalton,” she moans, voice breaking around my name, and holy hell, I’ve never loved hearing it more.
“There you are,” I murmur against her soft skin.
She presses my other hand to her center, and even through the fabric of her leggings I can feel the heat of her, the unmistakable way her body is already responding to me. Her fingers lace through mine, guiding, urging, needy in a way that makes me shiver with raw, aching want.
My jaw tightens, control slipping another notch as her fingers curl more insistently into my flight suit, dragging the zipper lower like she’s as done waiting as I am.
“Ivy…” Her name comes out rougher than I intend, half warning, half promise.
Her answer is to rock against my hand, slow and deliberate, eyes dark and steady on mine as if she wants me to see exactly what she’s asking for.
The restraint I’ve been holding onto all week finally gives way.
My mouth finds hers again, deeper this time, hungrier, the kiss turning heated fast enough that she has to grip my shoulders to steady herself. My hands tighten on her waist, guiding her closer, needing more contact, more pressure, more proof that she’s really here and really okay.
Her nails drag lightly at the back of my neck, sending heat straight down my spine.
“You’re sure you’re good?” I murmur again, voice low against her ear, giving her the chance to slow this down if she needs to.
Instead, she presses closer. “Yes,” she whispers, the word warm against my skin. “Please stop asking.”
A quiet laugh escapes me, more exhale than sound. “Yes, ma’am.”
Her fingers slide beneath the undershirt beneath my flight suit, palms warm against my skin as she traces my abs. “I need you,” she murmurs, barely audible.
That does it.
I lift her easily from the counter, her legs wrapping around my waist without hesitation, her mouth still warm against mine as I start toward the stairs.
By the time we reach the first step, restraint feels like a distant memory.