Page 142 of When We Fall
Not the walls. Not the porch swing or the smell of the grill outside.
This was home.
I turned and caught the look in his eyes. That slow-burn, storm-on-the-horizon kind of gaze he always gave me when the world quieted and we were just us.
Something passed between us—hot and steady.
Our mouths met in a kiss that was slow and certain, built from memory and longing and promise.
I could taste the day on his lips—laughter and lemonade and cinnamon sugar.
His hands settled on my hips. Mine curled around the back of his neck.
Later wasn’t soon enough.
The house was dark and still.
Winnie had fallen asleep on the couch halfway through a movie. Austin carried her upstairs with a gentleness that made my heart ache, and I watched them disappear down the hallway, the soft hush of her bedroom door clicking closed behind him.
By the time he returned, I was already under the covers, curled on my side, wearing one of his old tees and nothing else.
He leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, watching me like I was the only thing he’d ever wanted.
“You just going to stand there all night?” I teased, voice low.
He hummed and moved closer. “I’m just thinking about all the ways I want to ruin you.”
Heat flushed beneath my skin. I sat up slowly, the sheet sliding off my legs. “Then show me.”
That was all it took. He crossed the room like a man starved.
His mouth crashed into mine, hot and hungry, hands already beneath my shirt. The kiss deepened, his tongue stroking against mine, pulling a whimper from my throat as he guided me back onto the pillows.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he growled against my neck. “Every damn day, Selene. I wake up hard just thinking about your legs around me.”
My breath hitched.
He peeled off my shirt like it was sacred, like unwrapping a gift he’d waited years to open. His hands roamed—palms and fingertips and knuckles grazing skin that had only ever felt this alive beneath his touch.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured. “This body? Mine. This mouth?” He kissed me, deeper now. “Mine too.”
His words weren’t filthy. They were worship.
When he slid down between my thighs, I moaned. He didn’t rush—he savored, devoured, like he was learning me all over again, even though he already knew every inch of me by heart.
His name broke from my lips again and again—plea and praise and promise.
When he finally sank into me, I gasped. He groaned, low and deep, like he was home.
Our bodies moved together, slow and desperate, chasing something ancient and tender and hungry. He kissed every part of me, whispering filth against my skin until I came undone beneath him, trembling and gasping his name.
After, we lay tangled in the sheets, limbs knotted, his hand tracing lazy circles over my hip.
He looked at me like there was no other life before this one. In his arms, with our whole messy, beautiful life unfolding around us, I realized—sometimes the best kind of magic isn’t the kind you chase.
It’s the kind that’s waiting to catch us when we fall.
