18. Mack
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
mack
I made the right call.
I’m reasonably certain of this.
I’m at my kitchen sink in the dark, one hand braced on the counter, drinking cold water straight from the tap because I’m still running hot and I need something to do with my hands that isn’t what I’ve been thinking about doing with them for the last forty-five minutes.
She said yes and she meant it—I felt how much she meant it—but she’s also been drinking since noon and running hot off a full day of alcohol infused adrenaline, and I’m not doing this for the first time on St. Patrick’s Day after all of the parade chaos. She deserves better than that.
So, she gets the chance to wake up tomorrow and decide if she still wants this.
My brain understands this, but my lips still feel the ghost of hers, and my cock is still straining against my boxer briefs like it has its own opinion.
I turn off the water and just stand there recapping the night.
I think about Abby and the way she put her hand on my shoulder the second she spotted me, fake smile already in place before she’d even looked at my face. Saw the uniform first.
We’d had a thing four summers ago, which is a generous way to describe it.
She wanted a firefighter. I happened to be one and wasn’t paying close enough attention to realize that was the whole appeal.
Took me two months to notice I couldn’t remember a single conversation we’d had that wasn’t about the job, the station, or whether I was taking her to the summer cookout.
I ended it.
She was with another guy from a different house before the month was over.
No hard feelings. No feelings at all, really.
Bunnies never did much for either of us. You can tell in about thirty seconds that they’re not looking at you, they’re looking at the idea of you, and there’s nothing lonelier than figuring that out after the fact.
Abby had just been the thing that made me stop giving it the benefit of the doubt.
I’d clocked the shift in Darcy’s expression the minute Abby’s hand landed on my shoulder. The way she’d picked up her beer and found something else to look at. Darcy couldn’t pull off indifferent if her life depended on it.
I knew exactly what it was and spent the rest of the night pretending I wasn’t checking on her every few minutes.
I wanted to tell her that Abby hadn’t meant anything in four years. That none of them had. That nothing comes close to what she’s done to this house—to me—in six weeks just by being in it.
I didn’t say it. But the fact that I wanted to and I hadn’t even touched her yet said enough.
Tyler comes down the loft stairs in his usual end-of-the-night state, looking like he’s been thinking for a while and has finally decided to involve me in it. He leans against the counter across from me, folds his arms, and studies me for a second.
“That was brutal.”
“I know.”
“For her,” he says. “Also for me. Also, objectively, as a witness.”
“Go to bed, Ty.”
“You think either of us is sleeping tonight?” He lets out an amused breath. “She’s been upstairs less than an hour, and I’ve already jacked off twice.”
I give him a sideways look.
He lifts both hands.
“I’m just saying. The self-control was impressive.”
“It was necessary.”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t.”
The kitchen settles for a beat.
“She kissed back though.”
My jaw tightens.
“I know.”
“And she trusted us.”
That makes something in my chest constrict.
“I know.”
“She’ll be down here tomorrow.”
“If that’s what she wants.”
Tyler watches me for another second.
“Tomorrow’s gonna be a problem for you.”
I shake my head.
“It’s a problem for both of us.”
A corner of his mouth lifts.
“So what do we do?”
“Nothing.”
I push away from the sink.
“We know where we stand. Now she gets to decide where she does.”
He gives me a small nod, holding my gaze for another beat before pushing himself off the counter.
“Goodnight, big bro.”
He disappears up the loft stairs and pauses halfway, looking back once with the grin that means he’s saving the rest of this for later.
The house settles around me the way it always does, the old pipes ticking somewhere in the walls, the furnace kicking on, the floorboards shifting with the cold.
For the better part of two months those sounds have come with another set layered over them—the muffled rhythm of cabinet doors upstairs, water running through old plumbing, footsteps crossing the floor above my bedroom.
Darcy.
Tonight every sound reminds me she’s one flight up. It would be easy to go back upstairs. Easy to knock on her door and take back every inch of careful distance I’d forced between us in the foyer.
Tempting as it is, I stay put, staring at the ceiling running through the logic again—give her the night, let her come to it on her own terms, don’t push. All still right.
Except I can still feel her.
The way her soft frame melted into me the second I pulled her close, full lips against mine, fingers climbing into my hair and gripping me closer.
I can still hear the sound she’d made against my mouth when I’d backed her into the wall like it surprised her.
The way she grinded against my thigh, desperate enough she’d forgotten there was any reason to hide what she wanted.
I’d had her pinned against the wall, finally tasting her as her hips worked against me, and I’d still walked away.
My dick still has strong opinions about that decision.
Four minutes later, I stop pretending sleep is coming. I think about what she’d sounded like. What she’d sound like in my bed with nothing to muffle it, no foyer, no clothes, no reason to stay quiet.
Her underneath me, rolling her hips to meet mine as I slide into her, taking the pressure she was chasing all night.
Her crying out for me when I finally gave it to her—and I’d make her wait for it, because I’m a thorough man and I want to hear her ask.
Want her to beg. My mouth working its way down her body until patience became the first thing she lost, her thighs locked around my head while my name fell out of her in pieces she couldn’t put back together.
Whether she’d stay sharp-tongued right up until she came or just let herself go completely.
Both. Every version. I wanted all of it.
I fist my cock and stroke, slow at first, chasing relief that doesn’t come as easily as it usually does.
I think about getting her out of Tyler’s hoodie and taking my time with every inch underneath it, about the way she’d grind against my hand the same way she’d ground against my thigh, chasing what she needed without a second thought.
I picture her back arching off the mattress, nothing careful or composed left, her asking for more in that wrecked voice until I gave her exactly what she was asking for.
When it’s over, I’m lying there just as wound up as when I started.
That’s the difference. Has been for weeks if I’m being honest with myself. I’m a practical man. I understand what I need and I handle it and move on. That’s always been enough.
But with Darcy, it isn’t.
She doesn’t feel like something I can shake off or fuck out of my system. She lingers in the quiet after, in the spaces between thoughts, in the sound of my own house settling around me.
I told her tomorrow because it was the right thing to do, because she deserved the chance to wake up and choose this again with a clear head. It was either the most sensible thing I’ve done all day or something I’m going to regret the second she appears at the door.
Or maybe she’d decide this wasn’t for her and think it was a mistake.
The thought settles like an anchor on my chest.
Down the hall, Tyler’s TV clicks on and off a few times.
“Yeah,” I mutter to the ceiling.
“Me too.”