Page 42 of At First Flight (Coral Bell Cove #1)

I open my mouth to respond, but it’s useless. Because he’s already crowding me, his hands settling on my waist like he owns the space between us. As if he’s been waiting for this exact moment to make good on all the tension simmering beneath the surface.

“You smell like dryer sheets and temptation,” he murmurs against my throat, pressing kisses to the skin just beneath my jaw. I shiver when his hands slip around my pants, sliding slowly, so slowly, around my thighs.

“Dean…”

He drops to his knees.

I gasp, my hands gripping the edge of the counter for balance, for sanity, for anything to keep me grounded while he parts my legs with his shoulders and kisses the inside of my thigh like it’s sacred. His strong hands tug me forward until I’m practically hovering over the edge.

The air is thick with heat and something heavier—need. His palms glide up the curve of my hips, holding me steady as his mouth replaces his hands.

I forget how to breathe as his tongue explores my pussy, mapping a journey of its own. I’ve never had someone work my body the way he can. Dean kisses and licks my body like he needs it to survive.

The world tilts on its axis as sensation crashes over me in slow, delicious waves. My fingers knot in his hair, and I’m gone, utterly undone by the way he worships me without ever saying a word.

“Dean,” I whisper, voice broken, raw.

He doesn’t stop. He never rushes. Every movement is controlled, deliberate, coaxing pleasure from me like it’s his mission. And it has to be because by the time my body threatens to buckle, he’s there, strong arms lifting me back onto the counter like I weigh nothing at all.

I can’t speak. I can only hold onto him, shaking and breathless, as he presses a kiss to my temple and murmurs, “God, I love the way you come apart for me.”

I laugh, but it’s a soft, shaky thing. “I think you’ve officially ruined laundry for me.”

He grins. “Good. Then next time, you’ll have no choice but to do it with me.”

And judging by the way my heart races when he kisses me again—hot and sweet and all-consuming—I know I’ll never fold another towel without remembering this moment.

But then he stills.

Dean presses his forehead to mine, breathing hard. His hands are still on me, but they’re no longer moving. His voice is a low growl, full of want and intent. I chance a peek at his straining cock and know he’s suffering and filled with so much restraint.

“Lila, as much as I want to keep going, and make no mistake, I do, I need you to know something.”

I blink up at him, still dazed from the kiss, from the feel of him.

He gently tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear, his thumb brushing along my jaw. “I want more than this. I want to take you to dinner, walk with you through town hand in hand, let you introduce me to everyone and say, ‘This is Dean. He’s mine.’”

His voice softens, roughened by emotion. “You deserve more than a quick, heated fumble in a laundry room. You deserve every bit of romance and respect I can give. So I’m stopping this for now because you mean too damn much to me.”

My breath catches. His words are like a bucket of ice and a shot of whiskey all at once—jarring but warm and heady, too. He’s giving me the power again, the choice. But at this moment, with my heart galloping and skin still buzzing from his touch, I already know the answer.

Still, I nod slowly, pressing a lingering kiss to his lips, one that’s tender, grateful, full of promise.

He grins, brushing another kiss to my temple before helping me down from the counter and gathering my shorts with gentle hands.

As I dress again, his eyes linger, not with lust, but something deeper. Something that makes my stomach flutter and my knees threaten to give out.

The following morning smells like cinnamon and bacon. I wander down in leggings and an old tee, rubbing sleep from my eyes.

There’s a note on the counter in Dean’s handwriting:

Took the kids to the farm. Helping your brother with the harvest. Didn’t want to wake you. Figured you’d appreciate pancakes without demands for seconds. Oh, and I tossed the sausage. No reason to have that stuff in my fridge.

My heart flips.

There’s a text from Mom with pictures of Dean and the kids.

Oliver grins like he’s just won the lottery as he sits perched on a tractor, hands in the air like he’s flying.

Evelyn, her hair wild and cheeks flushed, holds out a carrot the size of her face to a gentle chestnut horse, her expression full of wonder and courage.

Pure and honest happiness.

But it’s the background that holds my focus. The one constant in each photo—Dean.

He’s not distracted by his phone or trying to take a call while half listening to the kids.

He’s there. Present. His hand rests protectively on Evelyn’s back in one frame.

His head tilts back in laughter beside Oliver in another.

He’s smiling in every single one, and not the polite kind reserved for photo ops or polite strangers.

No, this is real. And it hits me square in the chest.

Dean could be anywhere. Tucked away in some pristine office overlooking a boardroom or buried in spreadsheets and phone calls. He has every excuse in the world to be too busy, too preoccupied, too important.

But he chooses them. Every time.

That kind of undistracted and unwavering devotion is its own kind of aphrodisiac.

It’s not the muscles or the money that undo me, though he has both in spades.

It’s this. A man who isn’t afraid to get a little dirt on his designer boots if it means making his niece laugh.

A man who values bedtime stories and breakfast pancakes over power plays and investor meetings.

Where wealth and status define some men, Dean redefines what it means to be rich. And he proves it to me, to those kids, every single day.

And that… that’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.

Then a message from Dean chimes in.

Dean:

They’re muddy, loud, and in heaven.

Lila:

So your parenting plan is manual labor and livestock?

Dean:

Works every time.

Lila:

You’re dangerously charming when you’re confident.

Dean:

Only when you’re watching.

I smile too long at my phone. The kind of smile that seeps into your bones and lingers in the corners of your day. The kind of smile that improves the rest of your day.

With a destination in mind, I pack a cooler with watermelon, sunscreen, and a jug of sweet tea and head home toward Otter Creek Farms.

Once I step free of the car, the air hums with summer. A wet kind of heat that sticks to your skin.

Evelyn tackles me at the barn entrance, covered in sticky fingerprints and joy.

"LILA! I named the goat Waffles!"

"Excellent choice," I say, hoisting her up.

Around the barn, Rowan and Dean work shirtless under the sun. My brain flatlines as I take in Dean’s taut abdomen—the mounds and valleys I traced with my fingers the night before.

"You always show up after they’ve hit peak destruction," Rowan calls.

"Total coincidence," I lie.

Dean wipes his brow and saunters over. He steals a slice of watermelon from the cooler I’m opening and grins. The lazy kind of smile that reeks of secrets.

"You didn’t have to bring supplies," he says, voice low as he leans into me.

"I know. I wanted to."

We sit beneath a shady oak watching our small world unfurl. The kids chase chickens. Rowan cracks bad jokes. It’s messy, chaotic, sun-warmed bliss.

As the sun dips, the kids collapse on blankets. The days fun drifting away with the sunlight. Oliver snores from his king’s bed on the corner of the blanket and Evelyn sucks her thumb, curled into my side.

Dean watches us, eyes soft, smile slow and Rowan takes that as his queue to do his final barn check for the night. Leaving us.

"You fit here," he says simply.

I meet his gaze. "So do you."

He shifts closer, his hand settling on the small of my back. We don’t need a label, not yet. We need space to keep choosing this, again and again.

He presses a kiss to my temple. My breath catches, and something inside me finally exhales.

The following morning, I surprise the kids with a clear terrarium box holding a butterfly chrysalis I’d picked up from the wildlife center in town. It’s tucked safely in the corner, secured with a small twig and a mesh cover.

Evelyn gasps like I’ve handed her a unicorn. Oliver, ever the investigator, immediately asks a dozen questions.

We set it on the kitchen windowsill, just where the morning sun hits.

“It’s a painted lady butterfly,” I explain. “If we take care of this one and she turns into a butterfly, then I can see about fostering another one after.”

Oliver nods solemnly like I’ve entrusted him with sacred knowledge.

Evelyn cups her hands around the side, eyes wide. “I’m gonna name her Maple.”

Dean kisses the top of my head as he passes behind me, coffee in hand. “You’ve officially raised the bar. How do I top a magical butterfly transformation?”

I smile. “You keep making pancakes.”

We all gather around the windowsill at least a dozen times that day. The kids argue over who spotted it twitch first. Evelyn sings to it. Oliver draws pictures of it with superhero wings in crayon. And I stand behind them, heart so full it aches.

Because love doesn’t always come in fireworks or declarations. Sometimes it comes in pancakes, and caterpillars, and quiet, steady mornings where no one has to earn their place.

And for the first time, I don’t just feel like I belong.

I believe it.