11. Cyaire #4
“We wasted a lot of time,” I say finally.
Jamie’s eyes find mine immediately. There’s something in his expression I can’t entirely read, something open, and waiting, and careful all at once.
“It’s almost four years now,” I continue, keeping my voice even. “That’s a long time.”
“It is,” he agrees, and shifts closer.
Neither of us looks away, the anticipation, the want and need permeating the air is thick and heavy. Neither one of us moves though, just watching the other for tells.
Because for the first time since the night in New York, neither of us is pretending this is anything other than what it is.
I set my water bottle down on the coffee table with a quiet clink, the condensation from the plastic cool against my fingertips.
Jamie mirrors the motion, his own bottle meeting the wood with a soft thud, and I can’t help but notice the way his fingers linger on the surface for just a second too long, as if he’s grounding himself in the moment.
The air between us is thick with something unspoken, something that’s been building since the second I walked into this house and saw the life he’s built—one that feels so much more real than the sterile walls of my high-rise.
I kick my trainers off without breaking eye contact, the soles of my feet pressing into the plush rug beneath us.
It’s warm, lived-in, the kind of texture that makes you want to sink into it.
I turn toward him completely, my knees brushing against his thigh as I shift, and the contact sends a jolt through me. It’s not enough. Not nearly enough.
“I don’t want to waste any more of it,” I say, my voice low but steady, pulling my knees up under me until I’m kneeling over him, my thighs bracketing his hips.
The words hang between us, open and honest, completely vulnerable in a way I’ve never allowed myself to be with anyone else.
I wait, breath suspended, because this is the moment where he decides if he’s going to meet me or pull away.
Jamie’s gaze searches my face, his eyes dark and intent, like he’s memorizing every line, every flicker of emotion that crosses my expression.
Then, slowly, his hand lifts, his fingers brush against the curve of my jaw before settling there, his thumb traces the edge of my bottom lip.
The touch is featherlight, but it steals the rest of the air from my lungs, leaving me achingly aware of the heat of his skin, the rough callouses on his palm from years of gripping a stick.
His breath hitches just slightly when I lean into his touch.
When he leans toward me, I meet him halfway, my hands finding his shoulders, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt.
The first kiss is slow, unhurried, like we have all the time in the world.
Years of missed opportunities collapse into a single moment that somehow feels both brand new and long overdue.
His lips are soft but insistent, coaxing mine apart with a patience that tightens my chest. I melt into him, my body curves against his, and when his tongue finally brushes against mine, it’s like a spark catching flame.
The second kiss is deeper, our tongues tangle tentatively at first, then with growing urgency, I savor the taste of him.
A moan escapes me, low and needy, and he swallows it, his hand slides around my waist to pull me flush against him.
The heat of his body seeps through my clothes, branding me, and I arch into him, my fingers twist in the fabric of his shirt, desperate for more.
My body is pressed so close, the steady thrum of his heart beats against my chest.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. The interruption is jarring, a cold splash of reality in the middle of the inferno we’ve created. I pull back with a laugh, breathless, my lips tingling, and fumble for it, my fingers clumsy.
Cameron: Everything good?
Jamie glances at the screen, his expression caught between amusement and frustration, and shakes his head. “His timing is terrible.”
I grin, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. “I completely agree.”
Our eyes lock, and in that silent exchange, we say everything we haven’t dared to voice out loud.
This is real. This is happening. No more waiting.
The decision is made in the space between heartbeats, and I lean in to kiss him again, soft and lingering, before pulling back just enough to type a quick reply.
Me: Staying.
I toss the phone onto the table without a second thought, the screen clatters against the wood.
Then, before I can overthink it, I slide my hand to the back of Jamie’s neck, my fingers tangle in the short hairs at his nape, and straddle his lap fully, my knees sinking into the couch on either side of his thighs.
His hands grip my hips, his fingers flex against my ass, and when I lean in, my lips brush against his ear, and he shudders.
“No more wasting time,” I murmur, my voice rough with want. Then I claim him, my mouth crashes against his, hungry and demanding.