Chapter 45 Sparks Between Us #2
He leans in to kiss me, and my fingers curl in his shirt. Our mouths meet, our lips cold from the sea air, but the kiss itself is heat. A fire roars to life, burning through every careful boundary we’ve held.
He meets my gaze, reading my unspoken invitation.
“Are you sure?” he asks, every syllable resonating.
“Yes, I am.”
I want him. I want the heat of his mouth, the weight of him pinning me down again, to taste the saltwater on his skin.
“Should I—?” His gaze flicks toward the drawer.
“I’m on birth control,” I say quietly.
He holds my gaze. “Do you want me to anyway?”
I shake my head. “I don’t want anything between us. I…want to feel you.”
Surprise and hunger flare in his eyes. “Alright.”
His gaze follows every movement of my fingers as I unbutton his shirt, my hands slipping inside, tracing heat, muscle, the solid breadth of his chest. The intensity of his attention makes my pulse race, heat pooling low in my core beneath his dark gaze.
I attempt to lean closer, but a spike of pain shoots through my foot.
I tense, the chill of the room catching up with me, the jolt reverberating far beyond the injury.
It leaves me suddenly fragile in my own skin—every uncertainty louder, desire giving way to the need for a different kind of warmth.
Something softer and more aching: the wish to be held, reassured, until the stinging gathering behind my eyes fades.
“Lily?” Brandon asks, concern filling his eyes.
“I’m fine,” I say, drawing him in for a kiss.
His lips move against mine, a slow, claiming press, as if he’s savouring every moment.
It feels so good—his warmth, his closeness—but the pleasure is threaded with pain, radiating faintly up my leg and echoing along my spine.
My face tightens, my shallow breathing reminding me how close to tears I really am.
God. I’m so unprepared for this. I haven’t even shaved my legs since the accident.
“Who cares?” Ellenor would say. “He’s a guy. He doesn’t even know you have legs!”
But it’s not just that. It’s the whole thing. This isn’t how I imagined our first time.
Not in tracksuit pants.
Not with no decent underwear underneath.
Not with painful zingers shooting up my leg.
And for God’s sake, not when I’m thinking of my bloody sister.
I let out a small, despairing laugh as I stare at my exposed toes. The water didn’t get in too much, but sand from a sandless beach has somehow found its way between my toes. To top it all off, an itch crawls up under my cast, and the urge to scratch is killing me.
The combination of it all makes me wonder—is this too soon?
Brandon draws back a few inches, noticing my hesitation.
“The cast doesn’t bother me,” he says quietly, even as he moves to sit beside me, something extinguishing in the air.
“It bothers me,” I admit, eyeing the heavy, rigid shell encasing my ankle.
“It’s alright,” he says. “We don’t have to.”
I bite my lip. “I want to.”
“Are you in pain?”
“Yes, but it’s more than that. I feel like a drowned rat in…this.” I glance down at my baggy grey track pants. The oversized grey T-shirt does nothing to elevate the look. “This wasn’t how I pictured…us.”
“How did you picture us?” he asks playfully, arching a brow.
“That’s not the point,” I huff, smiling despite myself.
“I know.”
His expression shifts—heat giving way to something more tender.
“Lily,” he begins, brushing my cheek.
Whatever he was about to say is interrupted by my sharp hiss as an angry, knife-like pain stabs through me.
Brandon’s on his feet. “I’ll get the painkillers.”
“It’s fine,” I say through gritted teeth, willing it to be true. After eight weeks, my foot has no right to flare-up, especially not right at this moment. I thought I was done with painkillers.
The doctor warned this could happen. Inflammation. Cut nerves. Swelling. I nodded easily, believing I’d be the exception.
Brandon goes to the bathroom to fetch painkillers, and I’m quietly grateful, stifling a groan as the pain continues, the blade dulling just enough to be bearable.
“Here,” Brandon says, returning with pills and a glass of water.
I take them, and then there’s nothing to do but wait.
It’s not the first flare-up I’ve had, but it’s the first I’ve had in weeks—and of course it picks this moment to occur.
I release a steady breath, massaging my calf. Moisture squelches in my cast as I shift, so absurd I almost laugh.
Sexy.
I hope it doesn’t need replacing.
“I’m going to shower,” I announce, rummaging under the bed for the waterproof cover for my foot. I didn’t wear it to the beach—it would never have survived the walk on the shingle, and I wasn’t about to interrupt Brandon while he wrapped my foot.
“Need a hand?” Brandon asks as I put on the cover.
“That’s okay. You know…” I begin, unable to help the gloomy sarcasm that slips out, “this is the part where you tell me how tempting I am.”
His tone drops low. “You could not be more tempting.”
I choke on a laugh. “I was joking.”
“I’m not.”
I meet his gaze, reading the hunger in his serious expression.
A mischievous thought unfurls, but I keep my expression innocent. “Brandon, would you mind helping me shower?”
His pupils dilate. Then he recovers and nods, his voice strained. “Of course. Glad to.”
He helps me to the bathroom, one arm around my waist, careful to keep the weight off my foot. When we reach the shower stall, he opens the glass door, I turn and smile sweetly.
I turn back to him, my voice soft. “Could you help me remove my shirt?”
It’s oddly endearing—the way he doesn’t question it, doesn’t hesitate, simply steps closer and does as I ask.
His touch is careful, almost reverent as he peels away wet fabric.
When the shirt comes off, I’m left standing before him in track pants and my purple demi bra—more comfortable than showy as it shapes my modest curves, but it has a hint of lace I’m suddenly glad for.
His gaze flickers as he takes me in, then he looks up to meet my gaze questioningly, clearly unsure where permission begins and ends.
I’m not sure either, but I’m enjoying the effect I’m having on him.
When my thumbs hitch at the waistband of my trackies, his gaze follows the movement, watching as the fabric dips just enough to bare the curve of my hip.
Then I go still.
“Thanks,” I say, smiling sweetly. “I can manage the rest.”
A beat passes.
His eyes narrow, then they gleam with understanding as he realises I was teasing him.
“Oh, you are cruel,” he murmurs, bracing himself against the shower stall. “Very cruel.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I say, maintaining an innocent air.
“I think you do.” His gaze drags down my face, lingering on my lips before climbing back to my eyes.
The air changes, and I’m suddenly questioning if teasing him was wise.
His lips curve in a slow, dangerous way. “Careful, Lily. I don’t have as much restraint as you think.”
“No?” I ask weakly. I’m caught somewhere between wanting him to follow me into the shower…and knowing I’m not ready. Damn it.
Brandon steps closer, our faces inches apart, his voice reverberating through me.
My heart thunders as he leans in, his gaze hooded, his warm hand cradling my cheek.
He stops short of kissing me, his lips barely grazing mine as he says, “I’ll be right outside.”
“Cruel,” I echo as he leaves, the door clicking shut.
I release a long shaky breath. I’m playing with fire.
I shower, hot water loosening tight muscles, steam making everything feel soft at the edges.
All I can think about is the look Brandon gave me. Full of pure yearning and barely suppressed control.
Pain or no pain, I’m not sure how I resisted him.
I imagine him here with me, pushing me back against the cool glass, his warmth closing in, kissing me until thought dissolves.
Eventually, I force myself to leave the shower and return to reality—clean, wrapped in fresh clothes, damp hair limp around my shoulders. Brandon has vanished somewhere in the house. I find him in the kitchen making eggs, bacon, and toast.
“Breakfast for dinner okay?” he asks.
“You mean brinner? Of course. It’s the best kind of breakfast.”
His mouth curves in a smile. He reaches for a carton of eggs, then he stops and glances at me. “Actually, before that, I have something to show you.”
I straighten at once. “Oh?”
He goes to the espresso machine. My eyes widen when he opens a drawer and removes the tiny food-dye bottles.
“I’ve been practising,” he says.
I sit up properly now, excitement fizzing through me. I’m curious to see if he’ll make a tulip or a leaf. Or hopefully, a heart.
The espresso machine hisses, a soft bloom of steam lifting through the kitchen. He moves with quiet care, measuring, pouring, warming the milk just so. Then he adds droplets of food dye to the foam. When he begins to pour, his focus sharpens—brows drawn, movements precise.
I watch, transfixed, as milk and dye swirl together into rainbow streaks, a pattern slowly emerging in small, delicate details.
It’s not a heart. Or a tulip.
It’s not anything I recognise.
But it’s elaborate. Red melting into orange, yellow blooming into green, blue, violet. The foam becomes a living thing beneath his control, lines feathering and unfurling. For half a second, I think he’s attempting the seahorse design.
Then my jaw drops.
“Oh my God…”
Gradually—spectacularly—a Chinese dragon takes shape.
Dozens of rainbow plumes arc into a graceful neck and head, the foam shaping its eyes, curved horns, and even trailing into flowing whiskers at its snout.
The artwork is incredibly detailed, and impossibly delicate.
“Oh,” I breathe. “Brandon.”
“I’m not done yet.”
He adds a tiny heart, pauses to admire his work, then passes it to me.
“Show-off,” I tease, but I hold his creation in awe, the cup’s warmth seeping into my palms.
It’s a shame it won’t last, the dragon already softening at the edges.
I start to reach for my phone to take a photo—then change my mind.