Page 23

I don’t move.

Not right away.

Because even though Grant is standing right in front of me, even though I just said everything I needed to say—there’s still that one second of hesitation.

That one moment where I brace myself, waiting for him to push back, waiting for him to tell me it’s too late.

But he doesn’t.

He just exhales, slow and deep, like I just knocked the wind out of him.

Then he reaches for the door. And holds it open for me.

I walk out first. Not because I’m running. Not this time.

But because I need a second to breathe.

Grant follows behind me, his footsteps slow and deliberate, his presence a steady weight against my back.

It’s different now.

The tension isn’t sharp, like it’s waiting to snap.

It’s heavy. Thick.

Like we’re standing on the edge of something we can’t take back. And honestly? I don’t want to.

When we step outside, the cold air bites at my skin, but I barely feel it. Not when Grant is still right there.

Not when the energy between us is still buzzing, crackling, shifting into something I don’t quite have words for yet.

He walks past me, over to my car, and opens the door without a word.

I blink. Look at him. His expression is steady. Sure. He knows exactly what he’s doing. And something deep in my chest flutters.

I don’t argue when he takes my keys.

I should. I usually would. But right now?

I let him.

The car is quiet as we pull out of the parking lot. Not awkward. Not tense. Just… full.

Like there’s too much between us, too much unsaid.

I steal a glance at him. His jaw is tight, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gear shift. I want to touch him. I want to say something.

I want to reach over, slide my hand over the back of his and feel the warmth of his skin.

But I don’t.

Because I still don’t know what this moment is supposed to be. And I don’t want to break it.

We drive for a few minutes before Grant speaks. His voice is quiet, rough.

"So, are we talking about it?"

I swallow, staring straight ahead.

"Depends."

"On?"

I exhale. “On whether you’re going to give me shit for how long it took me to get here.”

Grant huffs out a laugh.

Not sarcastic. Not sharp.

Just… real.

"I think I gave you enough of a warning back at the rink."

I smirk, because he’s not wrong.

Then I steal another glance at him.

"So… are you still mad at me?"

His fingers flex on the wheel.

"Mad?" he echoes. "No."

I wait. Because there’s more. There’s always more with Grant. And after a moment, he gives it to me.

"Just wondering if I’m about to get my heart ripped out again."

My stomach tightens. Because I deserve that. I deserve every bit of his hesitation.

But the fact that he’s saying it aloud, the fact that he’s even admitting that I had that kind of power over him—

It cracks something inside me.

And suddenly, the words are right there, right on the edge of my lips.

"I don’t want to hurt you, Grant."

He’s silent for a long moment.

Then he exhales.

"Then don’t."

The drive is different after that.

Not tense. Not heavy.

Just… different.

Like we both know what’s coming next. Like we’re both bracing for it.

When we pull into my driveway, Grant puts the car in park but doesn’t move. Neither do I. Because now that we’re here, the weight of the moment is pressing down on me.

And I feel it everywhere.

In the way my pulse thuds, slow and deep.

In the way my stomach tightens, anticipation licking at my spine.

In the way he sits there, his fingers flexing slightly against his thigh.

I turn to face him. He watches me, expression unreadable.

I swallow. “You coming in?”

His jaw ticks. Like he’s considering it. Like he’s weighing what it means. And when he finally speaks, his voice is lower. Rougher.

"You sure about this?"

The question shouldn’t make my breath hitch.

But it does. Because it’s not about sex. It’s about everything. About us. About the fact that this time, it’s different.

And we both know it.

I reach for his jacket. Slide my fingers under the lapels.

Slow. Intentional. A choice.

"Come inside, Grant."

His chest rises on an inhale.

Then, finally—

We move.

I don’t know who moves first.

Maybe it’s him.

Maybe it’s me.

Maybe it’s the universe finally shoving us together because we were always meant to end up right here.

But the second the door closes behind us, everything changes.

The air between us thickens, heats. And right now, I don’t second-guess a damn thing.

Grant stands just inside my entryway, tall, broad, devastatingly composed. I can hear his breathing—slow, steady, controlled.

Too controlled. Like he’s holding back. Like he’s waiting for me to tell him I changed my mind.

But I don’t.

Instead, I step into him.

So close that our chests nearly brush, that his heat wraps around me, pulling me in, drowning me in him.

And when I slide my hands up his chest, fingertips skimming over firm muscle, over the heartbeat thrumming beneath his skin—

He finally lets go.

His hands catch my waist, firm and sure, fingers flexing like he’s testing his grip.

Then he tightens it.

Yanks me closer.

Not rough. Not careless.

Just need. Just want. Just him finally having what he’s been waiting for.

A shudder rolls through me as his hands slide lower, over my hips, over the curve of my ass, pulling me flush against him.

And holy hell—

He’s hard.

Thick and heavy against my stomach, his body a furnace against mine.

I gasp, my nails digging into the fabric of his shirt.

His jaw tightens, his breath hot against my temple.

"You feel that?" he murmurs.

A slow, devastating rasp that slides straight down my spine.

"That’s what happens when you drive a man insane for weeks, Flight."

I barely have time to process that before his mouth crashes onto mine.

It’s not slow.

It’s not tentative.

It’s hunger. It’s desperation.

It’s every minute of tension snapping in an instant.

His tongue parts my lips, sweeps inside, deep and claiming, like he’s trying to devour every damn part of me.

I moan, hips arching, thighs clenching.

And Grant?

He groans.

A deep, rough, completely wrecked sound.

His fingers dig into my skin, his mouth tilting over mine, consuming me, pulling me deeper, until I’m not sure where he ends and I begin.

I don’t know how we start moving.

All I know is suddenly, my back hits the wall.

His hands are everywhere—spreading my thighs, gripping my hips, sliding under my shirt, dragging over my bare skin.

And my hands?

They can’t stop touching him.

His jaw, scruffy with stubble. The hard planes of his chest. The thick muscles in his arms, flexing as he holds me against him.

And when I tug at his shirt, dragging it up over his abs, over his broad chest—

He lets me.

Lets me take my time.

Lets me drink him in.

Then—he makes me pay for it.

His mouth leaves mine only to find my throat.

Teeth. Tongue. Lips.

Dragging, teasing, ruining me.

"You know how many nights I’ve thought about this?"

I whimper.

"How many times I’ve imagined what you’d feel like under me again?"

His fingers trail up my thigh, skimming just under the edge of my shorts.

I bite my lip, hips tilting, chasing his touch.

"You wanna know what kept me up at night, Flight?"

His mouth moves lower, teeth grazing my collarbone, his hand sliding higher, fingers teasing at the lace of my panties.

I can barely breathe.

"Thinking about you coming apart for me."

And then—his fingers press between my thighs.

Right through the lace. A firm, purposeful stroke that makes me gasp and drop my head back against the wall.

"Fuck," I whisper, legs parting instinctively, my body already soaking through the thin fabric.

He groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating against my chest as his thumb circles, then dips beneath the lace, finding bare, slick heat.

"You’re soaked for me," he mutters. "You’ve been waiting for this too, haven’t you?"

And I break.

Because this isn’t just a kiss. This isn’t just sex. This is something else entirely.

Something that terrifies and thrills me in equal measure.

Because I’ve never done this before.

I’ve never let myself have something real.

I’ve never wanted someone so completely that it actually scares me. And yet, I don’t stop. I don’t hesitate.

Because this is Grant. And I trust him.

His fingers slide deeper, parting me, stroking where I’m already aching.

I whimper, hands flying to his shoulders, nails digging in.

He finds my rhythm instantly—like he knows my body better than I do.

"There you go," he whispers against my ear, curling his fingers just right. "That’s my girl."

I cry out, hips rocking against his hand, the pleasure building so fast it borders on unbearable.

And when his mouth finds mine again, it’s filthier now—tongue and teeth, low sounds that match the slick pulse of his fingers inside me.

I shiver with every touch. Not from nerves. Not from doubt.

But from the way he makes me feel seen. Like I’m not just something to be conquered. Like I’m his to worship.

And that? That’s what undoes me.

His forehead presses to mine, his breath warm against my lips.

"No takebacks, Flight."

My throat tightens.

Because he’s right.

Because this isn’t just want.

It’s something deeper.

Something I’ve never let myself feel before.

And when he finally kisses me again—slow, tender, devastating— With his fingers still buried inside me, his palm grinding against the ache at my core—I fall.

Completely.