Chapter 8
EIGHT
LUCY
The door clicked open, the familiar creak of the hinges absurdly loud in the hush of the house. I stepped inside, heart pounding like I’d sprinted the length of the block, not just gone out for dinner with a man whose smile should come with a warning label.
Cord followed close behind, his warmth a presence at my back even though we weren’t touching anywhere but the hand he had wrapped around mine.
I didn’t flip the lights on. Didn’t want to risk catching sight of a rogue toy or one of Liam’s crayon masterpieces tacked to the wall.
I’d shoved most of it out of view before the date, but still—mood killers had a way of lurking in plain sight when you least expected them.
The hallway stretched in shadow, lit only by the glow from the streetlamp filtering through the front windows and the automatic nightlight. I moved slowly, deliberately, my fingers brushing the wall for balance more than direction.
What am I doing?
My brain offered a dozen objections: Too fast. Too soon. Too much. But none of them were loud enough to drown out the memory of his mouth on mine, or the electric hum of possibility curling in my stomach. I wasn’t expecting forever. Just… tonight. Something only for me.
Cord said nothing behind me, but I could feel his gaze. Felt the heat of it slide up my back, over my shoulders, down to the hem of my dress.
I’d cleaned the house in a rush. Thrown toys in baskets, wiped counters, straightened pillows like I was staging it for a showing. I sent up a silent prayer of thanks to past me. No Legos. No juice rings. No stuffed animals propped up like judgmental spectators on the couch.
Every step down the hallway tightened something inside me. Anticipation tangled with nerves. My fingers curled around the edge of the bedroom door.
This was happening. It was happening now. And I wanted it. God, I wanted it. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t shaking just a little. It had been so damned long.
Behind me, Cord waited. Quiet. Steady. Solid.
I opened the door to my bedroom, took one step in—and froze.
The shadows shifted with the hallway light behind us, painting soft lines across the bedspread. But I wasn’t looking at the lighting. I was scanning the room with the speed of someone about to be audited.
Did I clean in here?
My heart flipped.
Was there laundry on the floor? I couldn’t remember.
Had I put away all those rejected outfits?
Had I left that ugly sports bra on the doorknob?
Were there Paw Patrol stickers on the nightstand?
I’d peeled some off last week, but had definitely missed a few.
The nightstand was out of view. I couldn’t risk turning on a light to check.
My pulse thundered. Confidence crumpled in on itself.
The spark, the rush, the breathless thrill of the night—this was the moment I remembered I was not the kind of woman who had no-strings sex.
I was the kind who found crushed Goldfish in her bra and couldn’t remember the last time she’d owned matching underwear.
I hovered in the doorway, the weight of it all pressing down on me.
Then Cord stepped up behind me.
“Lucy.” It was just my name, but the way he said it—low and rough, like he hadn’t quite caught his breath since the car ride—lit me up like a match.
He leaned in, his mouth brushing the sensitive spot just beneath my ear, then lower, to the curve of my throat. My breath hitched as his lips lingered there, warm and reverent. “You changing your mind?” His voice was a dark, delicious rasp. “It’s okay if you are.”
That undid me.
His gentleness. His patience. That ridiculous voice like warm bourbon and sin.
I turned, meeting his eyes in the dim light. “Not even a little,” I whispered, and rose up to kiss him again. It wasn’t tentative this time. This was a reclaiming, a declaration. My hands slid into his hair, my body aligning to his like we were magnets.
And when he kissed me back, I forgot everything else. The mess. The nerves. The worry. Kissing him became the only thing I could think about. The only thing I needed.
Cord kissed me like he’d been starving for it. Slow and thorough, as if every second was something to savor. And I kissed him back because I couldn’t not.
The world narrowed to the feel of his hands sliding down my arms, to where his fingers brushed my waist. Then he leaned back just enough to let his eyes sweep over me.
“Let me?” he asked, voice low, hand at the side of my dress.
I nodded, throat too tight for words.
His touch was unhurried, deliberate. He drew the zipper down with maddening care, the soft sound loud in the quiet room. My skin pebbled as the fabric slid down over my shoulders, then lower, pooling at my feet in a whisper of surrender.
He stepped back to look at me—really look.
“Jesus,” he breathed, one hand reaching out to trace the dip of my waist. “You’re…” He didn’t finish the sentence. Just shook his head slightly, like he couldn’t believe I was real.
I wrapped my arms around myself on instinct, but he caught my hands.
“Don’t do that,” he murmured, gently pulling them away. “Don’t hide from me.”
Something raw and fragile trembled in my chest. My body had been a lot of things these last few years—strong, tired, stretched, functional. It had fed a baby, carried groceries, chased a toddler through Target.
But right now? Right now, it felt wanted. Like it was allowed to be beautiful.
Cord bent and kissed the curve of my shoulder. Then lower. His palms slid up my sides, thumbs brushing the underside of my bra before he slowly—so slowly—eased the straps down. The bra joined the dress on the floor.
He cupped my breasts with both hands, his thumbs teasing over already tight nipples before he dipped his head and took one into his mouth.
I gasped, part surprise, part pleasure that landed low in my belly. His mouth was hot, his tongue deft and worshipful as he sucked and licked, switching sides with an indistinct sound of approval. My fingers found his shoulders, holding on, needing something to anchor me.
Breathless, shaking, and wanting—God, wanting—I let go of the last bit of hesitation.
Cord kissed a slow, aching path down my ribs, his mouth reverent, his hands steady as they explored every new inch of me. And then he went lower.
One of his hands slid down the curve of my hip, brushing my thigh before shifting inward. His fingers grazed between my legs, teasing, testing, and then circling where I was already aching.
I gasped.
“Still okay?” he murmured, his mouth close to my skin.
“God, yes.” The words slipped out unfiltered.
He smiled against the inside of my thigh—one of those cocky, devastating grins that made my stomach drop—and then his fingers stroked again, with purpose this time. Confident. Precise.
My hips jerked.
“Just like that,” he said softly, voice all silk and sin.
And then he did it again.
My breath caught. I gripped those broad shoulders, anchoring myself as heat bloomed and coiled deep in my belly. He watched me the whole time, like he wanted to memorize every flicker of my face.
I tried to hold it back—to draw it out, to stay composed—but I didn’t stand a chance.
The orgasm hit hard and fast, pleasure crashing through me in a wave so sharp and blinding, it felt like a dam breaking. My whole body shook. I cried out—high and desperate—then slapped a hand over my mouth, shocked at the sound I’d made.
Cord chuckled low, his fingers easing their rhythm but not pulling away just yet. He lifted his head to kiss the inside of my thigh. “That a yes so far?”
I could only nod, breath gone, bones jelly.
He pressed one last kiss to my skin, and then moved up, bracing his forearms on either side of my shoulders, his eyes dark and focused and hungry. “Good. Because I’m nowhere near done with you.”
Then he nudged my knees apart and gently eased me back onto the bed.
Cord slid my underwear down with aching deliberateness, his eyes never leaving mine. He didn’t rush, didn’t speak—just watched me as if unwrapping me was his new religion.
Then he settled between my thighs like he planned to stay awhile. Like this was where he lived.
“Cord—” My voice broke on his name, already raw from the first climax. “I don’t—I’m—”
He just smiled. “I know.” And then he lowered his head.
The first brush of his mouth against me made my hips jump, everything inside me going taut and electric. I was still sensitive, still trembling from the first time, but that didn’t stop him. He kissed me like it was a language. Like he was fluent in every gasp I gave him.
I clutched at the comforter, knuckles going white, back arching.
There were no coherent thoughts left in my head. Just fire. Just rhythm. Just him.
His tongue moved with wicked intent, slow at first, then with growing confidence as he read every gasp, every twitch. He slid one hand up to anchor me, palm flat against my stomach, holding me right where he wanted me.
I couldn’t breathe.
Pressure built again—hot and impossibly deep—and this time, it didn’t crash over me so much as consume me inch by inch. A slow burn that turned molten and bright, until I was sobbing out his name and dissolving under his mouth, shaking and helpless and completely his.
He didn’t stop right away. Just eased me down gently, coaxing every last ripple of pleasure until I was boneless and wrecked beneath him.
I blinked up at the ceiling, chest heaving, body limp.
Cord kissed the inside of my thigh and murmured, “Still with me?”
Barely.
But I nodded. Because somehow, I still wanted more.
Cord kissed his way up my body, unhurried and reverent, as if I were something to savor instead of conquer.
His mouth brushed my hip, my belly, then the aching swell of my breasts—slow circles of tongue that made me gasp all over again.
By the time he reached my mouth, I was already reaching for him.
I wanted to touch him. Needed to.
My fingers found the buttons of his shirt and made quick work of them, and when I pushed it off his shoulders, I had to stop and stare.
He was… mouthwatering.
All lean muscle and heat, the hard cut of his chest and arms making it abundantly clear that firefighter was not just a title, it was a lifestyle. My palms skimmed across his skin, mapping every ridge and hollow like I could memorize him by touch alone.
He hissed through his teeth when I dragged my nails lightly down his abs.
“That okay?” I asked, already breathless again.
Cord’s laugh was low and wrecked. “You keep doing that, and I’m not gonna last long enough to impress you.”
My hand dipped lower, stroking him over his jeans. The groan he gave was raw, hungry, honest. Like he hadn’t expected to feel this undone. That sound curled something low in my belly, gave me the courage to unfasten his pants and push them down along with his boxers.
And then—God help me—I had to look.
Because he was gorgeous.
Hard, thick, already flushed. I curled my hand around him, slow and firm, and Cord’s whole body jolted.
He dropped his forehead against mine, his breath ragged. “Jesus, Lucy.”
That reaction—that—hit me almost harder than the orgasms. Because it wasn’t just that I wanted him.
He wanted me, too. Badly. Visibly. Undeniably.
And suddenly, all I could think about was taking this all the way.
Cord reached toward the nightstand with a muttered, “I’ve got it,” his voice wrecked and rough.
He found what he was looking for, stowed in the top drawer as my grandmother had promised—and oh dear God I was not thinking about her right now—sheathed himself quickly, and lay back with his head against the pillow, watching me like I was the one about to undo him.
I was shaking, not from fear but from want. From nerves, sure—but also from how much I wanted this. Him.
No one was making this choice but me.
I straddled him slowly, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. His hands gripped my thighs like he wasn’t sure he could trust himself not to flip us over and take control. But he didn’t. He just waited, eyes dark and locked on mine.
I reached between us and guided him in, gasping at the thick, perfect pressure of him sliding inside.
I expected it to hurt a bit. After all, it had been a very, very long time.
But he’d already wrecked me so thoroughly I was slick and wet and ready for him.
The stretch of him filling me burned in the best way.
Made me suck in a sharp breath. Made him groan—actually groan—his eyes fluttering shut for a second like the sight of me wasn’t something he could survive.
“Jesus, Lucy,” he ground out, voice hoarse. “You feel…” He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.
I moved slowly at first, testing the rhythm, the angle, adjusting as I got used to the way he filled me so completely I could barely remember my own name.
Cord’s hands slid up my thighs to my hips, gripping tight, but still letting me lead. His jaw clenched, head falling back as I rolled my hips just right.
“Like that?” I whispered, drunk on the feel of him, the heat building in my core again.
His answer was a strangled curse and a helpless thrust up into me that made my whole body shudder. I moaned, bracing my hands on his chest and picking up speed—each grind of my hips ratcheting the pressure higher, the tension coiling tighter, heat blooming fast and hot and inevitable.
This was mine.
This pace. This pleasure.
This man, undone beneath me, worshiping every inch of me with his hands, his voice, the look in his eyes like I was the whole damn sky.
My orgasm hit hard—sharper, deeper than before—and I cried out his name, every nerve ending lit up like fireworks.
Cord surged up into me once, twice, then came with a low, broken groan, arms locking around me as if letting go wasn’t an option.
We stayed like that for a long moment. Breathing. Trembling. Clinging. Wrapped in each other like we couldn’t remember how to be anything else.
We didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.
The room was quiet but for the rush of our breaths and the thud of our hearts trying to settle into something resembling normal.
Sweat slicked our skin. My cheek stuck to the warm expanse of his chest, but I couldn’t bring myself to move. Not yet. Maybe not for a while.
He shifted, just enough to press a kiss to my temple, and something inside me trembled that had nothing to do with aftershocks.
I closed my eyes and tried to gather my thoughts. Tried to fit this into a mental box marked Temporary.
Just tonight.
Just pleasure.
Just what I needed after too long without anything that made me feel this alive.
But my brain wasn’t cooperating. It kept replaying his hands. His voice. The way he’d looked at me like I was more than just a body to be enjoyed.
My heart fluttered in protest.
I shoved it down.
This wasn’t more. Couldn’t be. I had a life that didn’t have space for things like this. For men like him. For wanting like this.
But as I lay tangled with him in my bed, his breath warm against my hair, one hand still splayed across my back like he wasn’t quite ready to let go…
I couldn’t deny one simple truth.
God, what a moment.