Chapter 12
Jeremy
By the time we reach her driveway, the sky has gone the color of bruised lilac, soft and heavy with the promise of night.
I kill the engine and listen to the ticking of cooling metal.
The air smells faintly of cut grass and rain brewing.
She’s quiet beside me, and her fingers trace the seam of her jeans.
I want to ask what she’s thinking. I don’t.
I unbuckle and step out, the gravel crunching under my boots. The passenger door waits for me to do the right thing, so I round the hood and open it. She blinks up at me, the hint of a smile tugging her mouth.
“I can get out of a car by myself.”
“I know you can.” I arch an eyebrow, curious if she’ll make it a challenge.
She doesn’t. Instead, she slips her hand into mine and steps out, warm fingers twining with mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
The porch light springs to life when we approach. Her hair catches it, strands gleaming like copper. For a heartbeat, I imagine this light spilling across both of us every night.
She gives my hand a small tug toward the house. “Come on.”
The porch light flickers once, then steadies.
The place looks solid in the half-dark with its brick foundation and clean lines.
It’s the kind of house built to last. I wonder how she feels walking back in here after everything with her father.
Does it still feel like home, or just another thing she’s keeping upright out of habit?
I don’t ask. She’s had enough for one day.
It’s a good house, though. Big enough for two.
Maybe for more, if life ever takes us there.
I catch myself picturing it—coffee on the porch, papers scattered across the kitchen table, her shoes kicked off by the door—and file that thought away before it shows on my face.
Add it to the growing list in my head: talk about her father, talk about her future, talk about us.
There’s a lot to build. But first, tonight.
She unlocks the door and steps inside, still holding my hand like she’s afraid to let go.
“I’m tired.” She squeezes my fingers and inhales like she’s been holding her breath.
I pull her against me and melt a little inside when she cuddles against my chest.
I admire her when she’s all business like at work, I like her all warm and interested when she interacts with my grandparents, I adore how patient and understanding she was with my mom, but I love when she’s like this.
She’s allowing herself to lean on me, trusting me to hold her, and I think that’s as much metaphorically as physically.
She sighs against my chest, and I don’t care we’re standing in a hallway, and that we’re fully clothed. If she needs it, I’ll happily hold her for hours. So, I stand, stroke her back and carry her weight.
I don’t know how long we stand like this, but eventually she leans back and stares up at me. “Thanks.”
“Baby, I love it when you let me hold you.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah.” I kiss the tip of her nose, catching the faint hitch in her breath. “So tell me, what do you do to unwind?”
She goes still, like I’ve caught her off guard. A faint color climbs her neck, and she drops her gaze to where our hands rest. The reaction’s so unexpected, it kicks my curiosity awake.
I hook a finger under her chin and nudge her eyes back to mine. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”
“No.” She shakes her head, collects herself, shoulders squaring in that familiar, work-mode way. “I make pots.”
“Pots?” I blink.
“Yes, you know.” Her lips twitch like she’s fighting a smile. “Clay. A wheel. Water. Mess everywhere.”
Now I can see it — her sleeves rolled up, hair pulled back, a streak of clay on her cheek. “You throw them?”
“Mmhmm. Centering’s the hardest part.” She cups her hands as if she’s shaping something right there in the air between us. “You start with this lopsided lump, and it wobbles until you find the balance. You press, steady, guide it until it stops fighting you. Then it listens.”
Her fingers turn slowly, tracing invisible circles. There’s a softness in her face I haven’t seen before.
“It’s like the world narrows to what’s under your hands,” she says, voice lower now. “Just the spin, the pull of the clay, the hum of the wheel. If your mind wanders, it collapses, so you have to stay there. Present.”
I swallow, watching her hands. The way her thumbs move, the concentration in her tone. It’s hypnotic. “Sounds… grounding.”
She smiles, a real one this time. “It is. There’s something satisfying about creating something that lasts. Even if it’s crooked.”
“Like people,” I murmur.
Her eyes lift to mine, warm, amused, and a little unguarded. “Exactly like people.”
She lifts her hands to my chest, palms flat, fingers spreading as if to test the beat of my heart through the fabric. Her eyes flick up—uncertain for only a breath—then she steps in, her body brushing mine as her arms loop around my neck.
“Let’s find out where the balance between us is,” she murmurs.
Before I can answer, her lips catch mine. It’s not gentle or practiced, but it’s real—alive. Her mouth moves against mine with the slow insistence of someone discovering how deep a kiss can go. She presses in closer, and the world narrows to the scent of her hair and the taste of her breath.
A low sound rumbles in my throat. I slide my hands down her sides, tracing the curve of her ribs, the heat of her skin bleeding through the thin cotton.
When my thumb slips beneath the edge of her shirt and meets bare flesh, her breath stutters, and she leans in harder.
Her nails catch at my shoulders, desperate for something to hold on to.
I pull back just enough to look at her. Her pupils are wide, lips swollen from the kiss, a faint tremor running through her body. My chest aches at the sight—she’s breathtaking like this, suspended between wanting and surrender.
“Your balance seems fine to me,” she whispers, voice roughened by need.
I drag my knuckles down her spine, slow and deliberate, until she shivers. “Guess we found ours.”
She gives a small, shaky laugh, but it dies on her lips when she presses back into me.
The next kiss crashes over us like a tide.
Her lips part beneath mine, her mouth is warm and slick, and her tongue meets mine in a sensual, searching stroke that steals my breath.
She tilts her head, angling for more, and I follow her lead, matching the rise and fall, the press and retreat, until thought dissolves into instinct.
Each flick of her tongue sends a pulse down my spine. She catches my lower lip between her teeth, a soft tug that makes my control snap for half a heartbeat. I answer with a deeper pull, my mouth claiming hers until she moans into me, the sound vibrating between our lips.
I can feel the tremor that moves through her, the way her knees brush mine as if her body’s forgotten how to stand.
My hands find her hips again, steadying her, keeping us balanced even as the world tilts and the kiss takes over everything else.
The air between us grows thick with heat, with everything we’ve been holding back since that first touch.
When she finally breaks the kiss, her breath ghosts over my jaw. Her fingers slide into my hair, tugging just enough to make me look at her. The look in her eyes isn’t timid or uncertain—it’s fierce, deliberate.
“Jeremy, make love to me.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
We hit the stairs in a rush, half laughing, half gasping, hands everywhere.
She’s ahead of me by a step, hair flying, shirt slipping off one shoulder.
I reach for her and catch nothing but air.
My shoe catches on the edge of the step, and I curse, yanking it off midstride and letting it fall with a thud that echoes through the hall.
Her heels tumble down the stairs followed by a giggle.
“You’ll pay for that,” I growl, trying to sound dangerous while fighting with the knot of my pants.
She tosses a look over her shoulder, and her eyes gleam with mischief. “You’ll have to catch me first.”
She darts down the hallway, now bare feet silent against the wood. I lose the battle with my pants, nearly trip over them, and kick free. They join the growing trail of clothes we leave behind in a carnal version of breadcrumbs.
“Clara!” I lunge, fingers grazing her waist before she twists away.
“Too slow!” She laughs, breath hitching when I finally catch her at the doorway. My arms wrap around her from behind, pulling her flush against me. Her squeal turns into a gasp when my mouth finds the curve of her neck.
“Got you,” I murmur against her skin.
She twists in my arms, and her lips crash into mine.
Our mouths collide in a clash of breath and hunger.
There’s no slow build, no testing, just raw need.
I press my tongue against the seam of her lips and surge inside when she opens for me.
Our tongues tangle, and the taste of her floods my senses.
Her breath hitches against my mouth as I press her down.
The kiss turns messy, wet, and frantic. I’m painfully hard and breathing heavy but I don’t want our kiss to end.
Each time I think I’ve found her rhythm, she changes it, driving me half wild until the only thing left is the sound of us.
I walk her backward until her knees hit the edge of the bed. She falls back, pulling me with her.
“Shit,” I mutter, breaking just long enough to realize what’s missing. “My wallet’s in my pants. Need condoms.”
She pushes up on her elbows. Her eyes are almost black and her chest rises, falls in rapid bursts. “Are you clean?”
“Yeah. Last check-up was six months ago. Only been with you after.”
“I’m on the pill.” She swallows and blushes but doesn’t break eye contact. “For my cycle.”
The air between us shifts, tightens.
“Don’t bother with protection.”
The words slam into me, low and hard, stealing the air from my lungs.
Heat floods my veins, sharp and heady, and for a second all I can do is stare at her—at the trust in her eyes, the way her body yields but her gaze never wavers.
My pulse kicks up, fast and unsteady. Thought burns away, leaving nothing but the raw, electric need to feel her skin against mine, no barriers, no distance, nothing left between us but breath and heat.
Then I move because the thought of being inside her, skin to skin, nothing between us, is the most intoxicating thing I’ve ever known.