Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
It starts with his hand.
Not grabbing. Not pulling. Just there.
We’re walking through town, the afternoon light soft and misleading, the kind that makes everything look gentler than it is. Will’s hand rests at my lower back, fingers spread like he’s memorizing the shape of me through fabric. It shouldn’t mean anything, but it does.
I notice the way people look at us. Not staring, as though they are assessing us. A couple passing us smiles. Someone nods at Will like they know him. I feel like I have found a place that I can truly call home with someone who makes me feel anchored and claimed. Claimed without being asked.
“You’re quiet,” he says.
“I’m thinking.”
“That’s dangerous,” he replies lightly.
I shoot him a playful glare.“You don’t like it when I think?”
His mouth curves, but his eyes don’t soften.
“I like it just fine. I just prefer knowing what direction it’s headed.
” The comment should unsettle me. It doesn’t.
Instead, I lean closer as we continue to walk through the main street of the town.
We stop outside a shop window I’ve passed a hundred times.
He positions himself behind me as I look in, his chest brushing my back, his hand sliding from my waist to my hip, firmer and more sure.
“You do this on purpose,” I murmur.
“Do what?”
“Stand like this,” I say. “Like you’re daring someone to misunderstand.”
His breath warms my ear. “Let them.”
The possessiveness curls low in my stomach, slow and unwelcome and wanted all at once. When I turn to face him, he doesn’t give me space. He steps in, crowding me gently into the glass, his body blocking the world without touching my throat, my wrists, anything overt. Just enough.
“You’re staring again,” he says.
“I could say the same.”
He lifts a hand and brushes his thumb under my lip, not sexual, not chaste. Evaluative. Familiar.
“You’ve been pulling away,” he says quietly.
My heart skips. “No, I haven’t.”
“You have,” he replies calmly. “Just a little.”
I don’t ask how he knows.
“I’ve just been thinking,” I say instead. “About… timing.”
His gaze sharpens. “Timing.”
“About how fast things move sometimes,” I continue, choosing my words carefully. “And how sometimes you don’t notice until you’re already somewhere new.”
He studies me for a long moment. Too long. “You don’t regret being here,” he says. It isn’t a question.
“No,” I answer. Because that part is true.
He leans in then and kisses me, not rushed, not hungry. Controlled. Deep enough to quiet the thoughts forming at the edges of my mind. His hand slides into my hair, tilting my head, like he’s done this a thousand times. Like practice. When we break apart, his forehead rests against mine.
“You’re safe with me,” he murmurs. The words are soft. Intimate. They shouldn’t feel like a promise he’s already kept.
Later, we’re on a bench near the edge of town, my legs tucked between his, pressed close, his hands splayed over my thighs—claiming, bold, as if daring anyone passing by to say something.
People move around us in the fading light, couples strolling, kids on bikes, an old man with a dog.
I can feel their glances, their curiosity, but Will doesn’t move, doesn’t hide. His only focus is me.
“Do you ever think about moving somewhere new again?” he asks, his palm sliding just a little higher, fingers squeezing in a way that promises things he can’t say out loud here.
The question lands deep, the intimacy of it cutting past the noise of the street. I force a lightness into my voice: “I don’t plan my moves anymore.”
Something flashes in his eyes, satisfaction, maybe, or just hunger. He smirks, thumb rubbing slow circles on the inside of my thigh, dangerously close to the hem of my skirt.
“Good. I’d hate to lose track of you.”
I bite back a laugh, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks as a couple walks by, watching us over their shoulders. “You make it sound like you ever did.”
He leans in, lips grazing my ear, breath hot. “I don’t lose things easily,” he murmurs, and with his words, his hand presses up, just shy of indecency.
The world shrinks to the space between us.
I shift, turning in his hold, straddling his lap without asking, my skirt riding up his jeans, my body blocking us from the street but not enough to hide anything if someone looked too closely.
My hands knot in his shirt, steadying myself, daring him.
His grip tightens, holding me in place, daring me back.
“You keep looking at me like that,” he says, voice gravelly, “and I’ll stop pretending I’m patient.”
“Who says you have to pretend?” I whisper, words thick as I rock slightly, letting the friction say everything I can’t.
He answers by kissing me, hard, right there in plain view.
His mouth is hot, hungry, devouring. I gasp, and he swallows it, his tongue slipping between my lips as his hands roam boldly, one up the curve of my back, the other clutching my thigh, edging just beneath my skirt.
A group of teenagers walks by, hooting, but he doesn’t stop.
If anything, he holds me tighter, deepening the kiss, making it clear I’m not going anywhere.
“Lilly,” he breathes against my mouth, a warning and a plea. I feel how much he’s holding back, every muscle tense beneath my hands.
“You’re very good at distracting,” I murmur, nipping at his lower lip.
He grins, wicked and unrepentant, his thumb tracing slow, dangerous patterns higher along my inner thigh. “You’re very good at letting me.” His words vibrate through me, daring me to deny it.
“You never answered me,” I say suddenly, breathless, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze.
He sighs, but his hands never leave me, never stop tracing lines that set my skin on fire. “About that night…” He pauses, jaw tight. “You want the truth right now?”
“I want it all,” I whisper, but a shiver of nerves slips through the haze. He feels it, stills, his lips brushing my ear.
“Not here.” His voice is low, rough, promising things only for me. “Not where I can’t have you the way I want.”
He kisses my cheek, slow and possessive, then eases me off his lap, his hands lingering, reluctant to release. I slide to the edge of the bench, knees still brushing his, heart racing.
“We’ll finish this later,” he promises, dark blue eyes lingering on my swollen lips, the blush on my cheeks. “Someplace I can actually hear you say my name.”
People continue to pass, but now I feel marked by the way he looks at me, by the ache he leaves behind, by the promise of what comes next.
I didn’t get my answer. But right now, I don’t want it. Right now, all I want is him, and the thrill of almost, of not quite, of public heat and private hunger barely caged.
I should push. I should insist. Instead, I lace my fingers with his again and let him walk me home. Because some storms don’t announce themselves with thunder. Some arrive quietly, hand at your back, convincing you the sky is still clear, right up until it breaks.