Chapter 15
My hands still clutched his shirt, the fabric warm beneath my fingers.
I’d left Doc’s house twenty minutes ago, fully intending to drive to Lucy’s.
To sit on her couch with a glass of wine and untangle the mess inside my head.
To talk through the promotion, the impossible choice, the way Diego still made my heart race after all these years.
Instead, my car had practically driven itself here, to his doorstep. And now he’d laid everything bare—his love, his questions that cut straight to the bone, his kiss that reminded me of everything I’d walked away from.
“As if I ever forgot,” I heard myself say, the words escaping before I could stop them.
His forehead still rested against mine, his breath warm against my lips. My whole body thrummed with awareness of him—the solid strength of his chest beneath my hands, the gentle way his thumbs traced circles on my cheeks, the heat radiating from his skin.
I should pull away. Should create distance to think clearly about his questions, about what I wanted, about the promotion waiting for me in Chicago.
But standing here in his small apartment, surrounded by evidence of the life he’d built—photos with his crew, well-worn books, a guitar propped in the corner—I couldn’t make myself move.
He was right about one thing. I did light up here. The past week had shown me that in painful clarity. Even with the stress of Doc’s health and my job breathing down my neck, I’d been more alive than I had in months.
Maybe years.
“Diego.” His name came out rougher than I intended.
He pulled back just enough to meet my eyes, his hands still framing my face. The intensity in his gaze nearly undid me—love and longing and patience all tangled together.
I thought about the managing partner’s call this morning.
The promotion dangling like a golden carrot.
Everything I’d worked toward for four years, sacrificed for, lost sleep over.
The track to the corner office, the prestige, the six-figure bonus.
My parents’ approval finally, definitively secured.
And none of it made my heart race like this man’s touch.
“I don’t know how to answer your questions,” I admitted, my voice barely a whisper. “I don’t know how to untangle what I want from what I’m supposed to want. From what everyone expects.”
His thumb brushed away a tear I hadn’t realized had fallen. “I know.”
“But I do know one thing.” I loosened my grip on his shirt only to slide my hands up his chest. His heartbeat thundered beneath my palm. “No matter what happens next week, no matter what I decide about Chicago or the promotion or any of it—I know I want you. Right now. In this moment.”
Something shifted in his expression, heat flaring behind the tenderness.
“Gill—”
I silenced him the only way I knew how, rising up on my toes to press my mouth to his.
This kiss was pure want, years of longing and heartache condensed into the slow, deliberate slide of lips and tongues.
Every sensation was magnified, electric—the soft warmth of his mouth, the way his breath hitched when I nipped at his lower lip.
He groaned against my mouth, a sound that vibrated through my chest and settled low in my belly.
His hands slid into my hair, fingers tangling in the strands as he tilted my head to deepen the kiss.
I pressed closer, eliminating any space between us, wrapping my arms around his neck and molding myself to his solid frame.
The hard planes of his chest pressed against my breasts, his thighs bracketing mine as I leaned into him completely.
The solid weight of him against me felt like coming home and setting myself on fire all at once. Like finding shelter in a lightning storm.
Whatever came next, whatever impossible decisions waited for me in the cold light of morning, I needed this. Needed him. Needed to memorize the sensation of his kiss, the way his hands mapped my body, the heat that bloomed wherever he touched.
Just once more.
His mouth tasted of mint and memories, of coffee from the firehouse and something uniquely Diego that I’d never been able to forget.
I wanted to drown in it, in him, in this moment that felt both stolen and inevitable.
The stubble on his jaw scraped deliciously against my palms as I cupped his face, my thumbs tracing the sharp line of his cheekbones.
He groaned again, a low rumble in his chest that sent shivers cascading down my spine and pooling as heat between my thighs.
I broke away long enough to whisper, “Bedroom.”
He hesitated, his breath ragged. “Gill, are you sure?”
In answer, I slid my hands down his chest, fingers tracing the hard lines of muscle through his shirt. I grasped the hem and tugged upward. He raised his arms, letting me strip the fabric away, baring his torso.
My gaze drifted over the planes of his chest, the ridges of his abs. There were new scars, small puckers of skin that hadn’t been there before. Reminders of the life he’d lived without me. I leaned in, pressing my lips to each one, as his heartbeat pounded beneath my touch.
His hands found my waist, thumbs tracing circles on my hipbones. I could feel his restraint, the tension in his grip as he held back. Waiting for me to lead.
I took his hand, stepping backward toward the hall.
His fingers laced with mine, gripping tight as he pivoted to take the lead.
This wasn’t where he’d lived when we’d been together before.
The apartment was bigger, nicer, neater in a way that showed he was no longer the young, confirmed bachelor.
But I wasn’t here for the decor. I only had eyes for him as he pulled me into his room.
The room smelled like him—clean laundry and that cedar aftershave he’d always worn.
Late evening sunlight filtered through half-open blinds, casting stripes across a neatly made bed with dark sheets.
Everything had its place: books stacked on the nightstand, fire department commendations framed on the wall, clothes folded on a chair instead of thrown across it like the Diego I’d known at twenty-two.
But what stopped me cold was the photo on his dresser.
Us. That last summer. My arms wrapped around him from behind as he sat on the tailgate of his truck, both of us laughing at something I couldn’t remember. Sun-kissed and young and completely oblivious to how soon it would end.
“You kept it.” The words came out strangled.
Diego followed my gaze, his hand tightening on mine. “Never could bring myself to put it away.”
Four years. Four years he’d kept our photo beside his bed while I’d buried mine in a box marked “College” in my Chicago apartment’s closet. A pang hit me, a sharp twist of nostalgia and regret.
“Diego—”
He turned me to face him, cutting off whatever inadequate thing I’d been about to say. His eyes searched mine in the dim light. “We don’t have to do this, Gill. If you’re not—”
I silenced him with another kiss, pouring everything I couldn’t say into the press of my lips against his. Focusing on the man in front of me, his eyes dark with desire and love and memories all tangled together.
I reached for his belt, fumbling with the buckle. He covered my hands with his own, stilling my movements.
“Gill,” he murmured, voice rough. “Are you sure—”
“I am.” I met his gaze, steady and sure. “I want you, Diego. I never stopped.”
Something in him snapped then, a dam breaking loose. His mouth crashed onto mine, hungry and fierce. I yanked open his belt, pushing his jeans down his hips. He kicked them off, hands reaching for me.
We tumbled onto the bed, a mess of limbs and desperate kisses. His weight pressed me into the mattress, somehow familiar and different. He was heavier now than he had been at twenty-four. A little broader. I arched against him, needing more. Needing everything.
He broke away to tug my shirt over my head, his eyes roving over me like a starving man. I unhooked my bra, letting it fall away. His breath caught, then his mouth was on me, hot and wet.
I gasped, fingers digging into his shoulders. He lavished attention on each breast, sucking and nipping until I was writhing beneath him. Then he moved lower, tracing a path of kisses down my stomach.
His fingers hooked into the waistband of my jeans, tugging them down along with my underwear. I kicked them off, baring myself completely. He paused, looking up at me from between my legs, eyes dark with lust and something deeper.
“You’re so beautiful, Gill,” he whispered.
Then his mouth was on me, and all thought fled. I cried out, hips bucking against his face. He gripped my thighs, holding me open as he devoured me. Tension coiled tight in my belly, building with each lick and suck.
When I came, it was with his name on my lips, body shaking with the whip of release. He rode it out with me, gentling his touches until I stilled.
Then he crawled up my body, settling between my thighs. He was hot and hard against me, but he didn’t rush. Instead, he brushed a strand of hair from my face, eyes searching mine.
“Okay?” he asked.
I nodded, reaching up to pull him down. “Better than okay,” I murmured against his lips.
He rolled away only long enough to roll on a condom, then he settled back between my thighs, sinking into me slowly.
A long groan echoed between us, and I wrapped my legs around his waist, urging him deeper.
We moved together, a dance of give and take, push and pull.
Each stroke fanned the flames higher; each kiss bound us tighter.
This was what I’d missed. What I’d craved all these years. Not just the sex, but the connection. The intimacy. The sense of being seen, known, loved.
I clung to him, nails digging into his back as tension built again. He slid a hand between us, thumb circling that sensitive bundle of nerves. And when I came undone again, he followed me over the edge, my name on his lips.
Afterward, we lay entwined in the tangled sheets, our bodies still humming with the aftershocks of what we’d just shared.
Sunset had given way to dark, and the room was warm and intimate around us.
Our breaths slowly steadied, the frantic rhythm of passion giving way to something deeper, more peaceful.
His fingers traced lazy, meandering patterns on my back, each touch sending little shivers of contentment through me.
My arm was draped across his chest, fingers splayed over the firm muscles there.
The heartbeat beneath my palm thudded strong and steady like the man himself—the same reliability that had drawn me to him all those years ago when we were both so young and uncertain about everything except what we felt for each other.
The silence between us was comfortable, filled with the kind of understanding that only came from truly knowing someone.
I listened to the quiet sounds of the night outside—the quiet hum of cars, the rustle of leaves in the breeze, the faint echo of laughter from somewhere down the street.
So different from the constant noise and pressure of my life in the city.
“I love you, Gill,” Diego whispered into the dark, his voice rough with emotion and lingering passion.
The words settled over me like a warm blanket, familiar and right. I pressed a soft kiss to his chest, tasting the salt of his skin and breathing in that scent that was uniquely him—clean soap and something indefinably masculine that made my heart skip. “I know,” I murmured against his skin.
Because I did. I always had, even when I’d tried to convince myself otherwise, even when I’d thrown myself into my career and my carefully planned life in Chicago.
And in that perfect moment, wrapped securely in his strong arms, sated and safe and more myself than I’d been in years, I couldn’t imagine ever leaving this place—leaving him—again.