Chapter Nineteen Hailey #2
I laugh so hard I nearly choke on my wine. “That’s tragic. That’s genuinely tragic.”
“The saddest origin story in juggling history.” He’s grinning, clearly pleased that he made me laugh. “What about you? Any failed attempts at impressive skills?”
“I took tap dancing lessons for three years,” I admit. “I was terrible. Like, embarrassingly bad. My teacher told my mom I had ‘anti-rhythm.’”
“Anti-rhythm isn’t a thing.”
“It is if you saw me tap dance.” I demonstrate a small shuffle with my hands on the table. “I’d go left when everyone went right. Every time. It’s like my brain was running on a two-second delay.”
“So you’re saying I shouldn’t take you dancing.”
“Oh God, no. Unless your idea of a hot date involves broken toes and public humiliation.”
“I’ll keep that in mind for future date planning.”
Future date planning. The words send a warm flutter through my chest.
“Bold of you to assume there will be future dates,” I tease, but I’m smiling so hard my face hurts.
“I’m an optimist.”
“Really? You don’t strike me as an optimist.”
“Fine. I’m a realist who’s optimistic about specific things.” His eyes meet mine, and the playfulness shifts into something more intense. “Things worth hoping for.”
Oh.
Oh.
The air between us grows charged. I’m suddenly very aware of the candlelight, the wine warming my blood, the way his voice dropped to a husky whisper on that last sentence.
I’m in so much trouble.
…
We finish dinner in a haze of undeniable attraction and burning sexual tension.
Every accidental and not-so-accidental touch has me feeling weak at the knees.
When our fingers graze reaching for the salt, electricity shoots up my arm, and when his knee bumps mine under the table, I practically aspirate my wine.
I’m a mess. A complete, hormonal disaster of a human being.
And judging by the way Cole’s eyes keep dropping to my lips, I’m not the only one.
When he insists on helping with dishes, we end up working side by side at my sink, and I find myself holding my breath. He’s so close I can smell every note of his cologne—sandalwood and soap. It makes me want to bury my face in his neck and just…inhale.
That’s normal, right? Wanting to smell someone? That’s a thing people do?
I can hear his every breath. In and out, slow and steady. Meanwhile, my heart is trying to escape through my rib cage.
When his arm brushes against mine for the fourth time, I breathe in sharply, fighting back the urge to look at him. If I turn now, when our faces are this close together, there’ll be no coming back from that.
“I should probably head home,” he says as we finish up, though he makes no move toward the door. “It’s getting late, and you’re on shift tomorrow. You need to sleep, and I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”
“You’re not,” I assure him, drying my hands on a kitchen towel. “But you’re right about sleep. Night shift recovery is brutal.”
After a long moment of staring at each other, we finally break away from the counter, walking toward the front door like we’re being led to our own executions. I don’t want him to leave. I’m not ready for him to leave. Every step feels significant. Every breath feels heavy.
At the threshold, Cole turns to face me, and suddenly we’re standing so close I can see the darker ring around his hazel irises. His pupils are dilated.
“Thank you for dinner,” he says softly. “For everything. This was perfect.”
“It was no problem at all.” My voice comes out breathy.
He reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering against my cheek. The touch is feather-light, but it might as well be a live wire the way it makes my whole body react.
“Hailey…”
“Yes?” Barely a whisper.
“I really want to kiss you right now.”
My heart slams against my ribs. “What’s stopping you?”
“I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop if I start,” he confesses, his eyes dark with want. “And I know you need to rest. I can’t keep you up all night the way I want to.”
The raw honesty of his desire makes my stomach tighten, and that familiar ache I’ve been trying to ignore all night intensifies tenfold.
“Maybe I don’t want you to stop.”
Cole’s expression shifts, that careful control slipping just enough to show the hunger beneath. He leans down slowly, giving me every opportunity to change my mind, to pull away, to be sensible.
I don’t want to be sensible.
I want to be his.
When his lips finally meet mine, every worry evaporates. The kiss starts soft, exploratory, like he’s asking a question. But when I press closer, when my hands fist in the front of his shirt, the question becomes a demand.
Cole makes a sound low in his throat and scoops his hands beneath my thighs, lifting me effortlessly. I wrap my legs around his waist, pressing myself against his hips, and I immediately feel exactly how much he wants this, too.
“Fuck,” he breathes against my mouth.
I respond by pulling him closer, deepening the kiss until I can taste the wine on his tongue. His free hand slides into my hair, tilting my head back as he takes control, and I melt against him.
He backs me against the wall and pins me there with his hips. The pressure is exquisite. I have never wanted anything as much as I want Cole Matthews inside me again.
“Cole,” I gasp as his mouth leaves mine to trail kisses along my jaw.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmurs against my skin. “Tell me to stop and I will.”
“Don’t you dare stop.”
He groans, and his lips find that sensitive spot below my ear—the one I didn’t even know I had until his mouth discovered it. I arch into him, my fingers digging into his shoulders as he works his way down my neck, alternating between soft kisses and gentle scrapes of teeth.
My hands find the buttons of his shirt, fumbling because fine motor control has apparently left the building. “Off. I need this off.”
“Demanding.” But he’s smiling against my throat, and he shifts his grip on me just enough to help. Buttons come undone one by one, revealing inch after glorious inch of suntanned skin and defined muscle.
Jesus Christ. He’s a fucking god.
“You still like what you see?” There’s a hint of smugness in his voice.
“Shut up and kiss me.”
He laughs—actually laughs, low and husky—as he captures my mouth again. The kiss is deeper now, more demanding. His hands slide under my sweater, calloused palms skating up my rib cage, and I shiver at the contact.
“You’re so soft,” he murmurs between kisses. “So fucking soft everywhere.”