Page 44 of At First Flight (Coral Bell Cove #1)

The road narrows as we pull into the neighborhood, the tires crunching softly on gravel.

Lila tucks her hair behind her ear, and my gaze drops to the curve of her neck, her collarbone.

I wonder what she’d do if I leaned in right now and kissed her there—slow and soft and reverent.

If she’d melt into me like she did earlier. If she’d whisper my name like a plea.

Or a promise.

When I park in the driveway, neither of us moves. We just sit, suspended at this moment like we’re both afraid to break it.

“I should probably…” she starts but doesn’t finish.

I reach across and gently run the backs of my fingers down her arm. “You don’t have to.”

She turns to me slowly. “Dean.”

I lift her hand, press a kiss to her knuckles. “I know. I’m not asking for anything. I just don’t want this night to end.”

A pause. Then, softly, “Me either.”

I open her door and help her out, our fingers lacing together like we’ve done this a hundred times. Like our hands were made to find one another in the dark.

Inside, the house is quiet. Still. The kind of still that makes everything louder—our footsteps, our breaths, the thunder of my pulse in my ears.

I lead her into the kitchen, flick on a soft light. She leans back against the counter, her eyes never leaving mine. I take a step closer. Then another.

The tension, the restraint—it snaps.

She’s in my arms before I can talk myself out of it. Her hands in my hair. My mouth claiming hers like I’ve been starved for weeks. Because I have. For her. For this. For the way she sighs into me like I’m the only air she’s ever needed.

She tastes like dessert and hope. Like everything I’ve been craving since she stepped into my life. My hands find her hips, pulling her flush against me, and I swear I feel her breath catch when our bodies align. Her fingers slip into my hair, tugging just enough to make me groan.

“Dean,” she whispers, voice shaky. “We should… I mean…”

“I know.” My lips brush her jaw, her neck, the delicate shell of her ear. “We don’t have to do anything. Not unless you want to.”

She pulls back enough to meet my gaze, cheeks flushed, chest heaving. “That’s the problem. I want to.”

I rest my forehead against hers, breathing through the tension clawing up my spine. “Then let’s want slowly. Let’s want right. No hiding. No regrets.”

Lila nods, her lips brushing mine in agreement. “Okay.”

But her hands don’t get the memo.

They slide under the hem of my shirt, fingertips skating over my ribs like she’s memorizing the shape of me. My own palms are greedy, exploring the curve of her back, the dip of her waist, the soft fabric of her dress clinging to skin I want to worship.

“Dean,” she breathes, and it’s a prayer I want to answer.

I kiss her again, softer this time, like a promise. Like a man who’s learning how to wait. Because I will. For her, I’d wait forever.

But right now? Right now, I get to hold her.

The house is dark and quiet, the kind of quiet that hums beneath your skin. Lila shifts beside me under the covers, the sheets rustling as she curls closer, her bare legs tangling with mine.

She smells like vanilla, strawberry, and my T-shirt. Like home.

We’ve been pretending to sleep for a while now, but neither of us has moved to break the illusion. Until now.

Her fingers trail a slow, lazy line across my chest, down the ridges of my stomach. My breath hitches, just a little, but I don’t stop her this time. I can’t.

Because the truth is, I’ve been on the edge since we walked through the door. Since she laughed in the car. Since she kissed me like she couldn’t wait another second.

She shifts again, this time with purpose.

Her mouth finds the curve of my neck, and her lips part in a kiss that has every nerve in my body firing.

It’s tentative in the best kind of way. All the tension of the night bringing us to this moment.

I brace a hand behind her back, but she’s already moving—sliding down the bed, blanket slipping with her like it’s being seduced too.

“Lila,” I murmur, a warning and a plea wrapped in one rough breath.

She doesn’t answer. Just presses one more kiss to my skin, lower this time. Her hands trace down my abs, stopping at the waistband of my boxers.

Everything inside me coils tight. I’m not sure what she’s up to, but whatever decision she’s recently made, I’m not arguing against it.

I lift my head to look at her—only to find her eyes already on mine. Steady. Confident. Like she knows exactly what she’s doing.

“You sure?” I ask, because I need to hear it from her. Because as much as I want her—God, do I want her—I want her wanting this more.

Her smile is soft. Wicked. Certain, then she lowers her mouth onto the ridge of my cock, and I forget how to think.

Her mouth is warm, moist, and utter perfection.

The urge to fist her hair is strong but I hold back, not wanting to scare her.

I fist the sheets, my head falls back, and all I can do is feel.

The slow drag of her lips. The heat of her breath. The sound—soft and wet and reverent—as she makes me lose my mind, one breath at a time.

She takes her time. Drives me insane with how gentle she starts, like she wants to learn me, edge by edge, and burn every reaction into memory. And hell, if I don’t want to give her every single one.

I groan her name—half praise, half surrender.

She doesn’t stop. Doesn’t rush. She’s relentless in the most beautiful, devastating way.

When I finally come, it’s with a curse and her name tangled on my lips, my hand in her hair, my entire body wrecked beneath her mouth.

She crawls back up, her smile smug and glorious.

“You okay?” she whispers, brushing her thumb over my cheekbone.

I catch her hand in mine and press a kiss to her wrist. “I will be. In about a week.”

She laughs. I swear it’s the sweetest damn sound I’ve ever heard.

And when she settles into my arms again, head resting on my chest like we’ve always belonged like this—I know I’m completely gone for her.