Chapter 12
Twelve
“Morning, girl.”
I woke up to sunlight slanting across an unfamiliar ceiling, pale grey, cracked faintly near the corner. A seagull cried somewhere in the distance, making the world feel too sharp and real, all at once. The rain was gone.
For a moment, I didn’t move. Just floated there, half-buried in tangled sheets that smelled like cedar, clean laundry, and something purely Paul. Did this really happen, or had I just woken up from a blissful, dirty dream? Was my imagination that vivid? And then I felt it all.
My body ached in places I didn’t know could ache.
My thighs, ribs, mouth. And still, a slow, private smile appeared across my face: I was absolutely, unapologetically wrecked.
I had felt like this only when I was up in the air, in the cockpit, behind the control stick of my glider, radio and controls on.
The other side of the bed was empty, faintly warm still. His jeans were slung carelessly over a chair, and his T-shirt crumpled on the floor where I remembered half-ripping it off last night.
Oh god.
The memories hit in slow, dizzy waves: Paul’s mouth over every scar, his hands braced against my hips as I moved above him.
His voice, ragged, telling me all the filthy, beautiful things he wanted to do to me.
I pressed my face into the pillow and groaned softly in sheer, stunned disbelief that life could still feel this good after everything.
After a few minutes, I swung my legs over the side of the bed. My jeans were still half-draped off one ankle: I peeled them off, blushing at the memory of how fast he made me lose every shred of modesty. My golden set still clung to my skin, slightly rumpled, slightly loose now.
I stood slowly, scanning the room for any signs of him.
Muffled sounds floated from the tiny kitchen: the clink of a coffee mug, the low creak of a cabinet.
I caught a glimpse of Paul through the open doorway: barefoot, bare-chested, hair messy, lazily stirring a French press with the kind of focus people usually reserved for dismantling bombs. He looked… good.
The kind of good that made me want to forget every sane thought and drag him back to bed by the waistband of his shorts.
Instead, I grabbed my sweater from the floor, tugged it over my head, feeling the cool fabric slide against the heat of my skin.
Then I padded barefoot into the kitchen.
He turned the second he heard me and smiled: that real, unguarded smile that punched most of the air from my lungs.
“Morning, girl.”
I leaned against the doorframe, pretending like my legs weren’t still slightly shaking.
“Morning, boy.” My voice came out rough, sleep-drunk.
He crossed the few steps between us and kissed me lightly, with care.
“You okay?” he murmured against my forehead.
“Very, very okay,” I said.
His mouth tilted into a lazy grin. He lifted one of my hands and pressed a kiss to my palm: the same hand that sometimes still trembled without warning. This morning, it was steady.
“Coffee?” he offered, nodding toward the counter.
“God, yes.”
As he poured, I caught sight of the small clock above the sink. 8:32 a.m.
Shit.
“I need to go home before my dad sends a search party and my brother mocks the death out of me,” I said, wincing.
Paul chuckled. “You sure you don’t want to hide out here? I could claim you were kidnapped by jazz-playing aliens.”
Tempting. Very tempting. But reality called. And it probably included Adam smirking over his morning cereal and Dad asking innocent, pointed questions about why I was tiptoeing into the house in yesterday’s clothes.
Paul handed me a mug, his fingers lingering just a fraction too long against mine. I took a sip, burning my tongue slightly, letting the heat wake me up properly. Then I glanced around.
My bag was still by the door. My jacket too.
But something was missing: I realized it with a tiny jolt of horror and thrill.
My shopping bag—the one with the extra lingerie set.
The blue one. And the garter belt. Gone.
I must have left it here last night when we stumbled toward the bed like two people starved for oxygen.
Paul caught the shift in my expression immediately.
“What?” he asked, eyes narrowing slightly.
I shook my head too fast. “Nothing. Just… remembering I have an important meeting today. With… Tom and… my cactus.” He laughed, rich and low.
I finished my coffee in three gulps, ignoring how he watched me over the rim of his own cup, teasing, like he knew exactly how undone I was under the sweater and jeans.
“I’ll text you later,” I said, backing toward the door.
“You better,” he said, stepping closer, crowding me gently against it. His mouth brushed my ear. “Or I might think you weren’t fully satisfied last night.”
Somehow, I made it outside with my dignity mostly intact. I caught an Uber back to the house without texting him seventeen times, but the second I slipped inside, shoes off, keys on the counter, I knew. Adam looked up from the kitchen table, oatmeal bowl in hand, eyebrows arching.
“Rough night, sis?” I froze.
Dad’s voice floated in from the living room,
“Morning, kiddo. Breakfast? You look like you could use about a gallon of coffee. And a protein bar.”
I cleared my throat, hoisting my bag higher on my shoulder. “I’m good, thanks. Just… you know. Long work shift.”
Adam was laughing his pants off.
Dad didn’t press—bless him!—but Adam’s look said everything: You’re lying, and I know it. You owe me an explanation and a six-pack of beer to buy my silence.
I bolted for my room before either of them could start asking real questions.