Page 84 of At First Spark
This time, nothing is restrained about it. No hesitation. No careful line he’s trying not to cross. Just heat. And pressure. And the unmistakable shift from tension to something that’s already gone too far to stop.
He lifts me off the counter again, my legs wrapping around him automatically like my body already knows where it belongs. The man doesn’t even flinch, though I know his ribs must be killing him. Each step he takes sends a jolt through me, the friction between us turning sharp and overwhelming in the best way.
We don’t make it far.
He presses me back against the wall, his forehead dropping briefly to mine like he’s trying to get a handle on something that’s already slipping.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “I need to see you.”
The words hit harder than they should, but I don’t argue. Don’t hesitate. Just let him.
His hands move again—sure, controlled even when everything else about this isn’t—and when he turns me, guiding me forward until my palms brace against the wall, a sharp pulse of anticipation ripples through me. The connection between us shifts again. Less explosive. More… inevitable.
My eyes close, my head tipping forward as everything else fades out except him. The way he touches me. The way he pays attention to every reaction like it matters. Like I matter.
His hands move without hesitation, finding the button of my jeans like he’s done this a hundred times before—even though I know he hasn’t. My breath catches as his knucklesbrush the soft skin just beneath the waistband, the touch light but deliberate enough to send a sharp wave of heat through me.
A frame rattles somewhere to my left, then all I can focus on is his mouth. The first press of his lips against the top of my spine steals whatever breath I had left. It’s not rushed. Not frantic like before. Slower. Intentional.
Like he’s learning me. Feeling his way through every reaction, every shift in my body, like it matters. And maybe that’s what undoes me most. Not just the touch, but the attention.
My eyes fall shut as he moves lower, each brush of his mouth sending another ripple through me, each second making it harder to remember why I should be pulling away.
I don’t. I don’t even try.
His grip tightens just enough as he works my jeans down, the fabric dragging slowly, leaving me both exposed and unsteady in a way that has nothing to do with balance.
If it were anyone else, I would’ve folded in on myself. Stepped back. Covered up. But this is Holt. And the way his hands move—firm, sure, reverent in a way that doesn’t make sense given everything else about him—keeps me exactly where I am. Exactly where he wants me.
A quiet sound slips from me when his mouth finds my skin again, sharper this time, enough to make my body react before I can stop it.
Everything tightens. Everything focuses. My thoughts scatter, slipping further out of reach with every second he doesn’t let me pull away.
I should stop him. I know I should. But my body betrays me, leaning into the feeling instead, chasing it before it disappears.
I shift slightly, more instinct than decision, and his hand steadies me, firm at my hip, grounding me in place.
When his touch disappears, the loss hits instantly, a quiet, involuntary sound escaping me before I can catch it.
“Holt—”
I don’t even know what I was going to say.
He turns me back toward him before I can figure it out. His hands settle at my waist, steadying, waiting—but his eyes…they’re different now. Darker. Focused in a way that makes my pulse jump.
“Step out,” he says, low and controlled.
And I do. Not because I have to, but because I want to. Because somewhere between the first touch and now, I stopped pretending I didn’t.
I’m suddenly aware of everything—the way he’s looking at me, the way the air feels heavier between us, the way there’s no space left for second-guessing.
No pretending this is just tension anymore.
His hands slide back to my hips, slower this time, deliberate, like he’s giving me the chance to stop him. I don’t. I can’t. Because I know—whatever this is between us… There’s no walking it back.
Not after this. Not after him. And that—that’s the part that undoes me.
I don’t know where to look. Or where to start. Holt watches me like I’m something he’s trying to figure out and devour at the same time, and the intensity of it makes my pulse jump before he even touches me.
