This is it. This has always been it.
“Seth,” she says, voice still soft, holding my forehead against hers. “Promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“Can I tell you first?”
I stroke my thumbs across her sides, bare skin right above her hips. Her body shifts, the slightest movement, but it sends a rush through me anyway.
“Fine,” I tease.
“That next time we fight, it’s not over,” she says. “Promise me that next time we fight about something, we’ll go for a walk or do some gardening or bake bread, but then we’ll work it out and stay together.”
I want to refuse. I want to say no, we’ll never fight again, everything from here on out is happily ever after, but that’s the worst kind of promise because it’s one I can’t keep.
I can’t swear to perfection or permanent bliss, but I can swear to stay by her side.
“I promise,” I tell her. “But I need you to promise me something.”
She swallows.
“What?”
“To always believe me when I say you’re everything I need,” I say. “Take me at my word when I say I love you, and only you.”
She smiles, laughs softly, and I can feel her relax.
“I promise,” she says.
We kiss: softly, tenderly, like a couple at the end of a movie. It’s a sweet, chaste kiss, the kind that comes with flower petals and love sonnets, the kind that whispers I love you to a sleeping princess at sunrise.
It ends. I pull away, dizzy, and Delilah looks up at me, all freckles and brown eyes.
Her hand drifts along the back of my neck, over my collar, flattens along my shoulder. She runs her thumb quickly over my dirt biking scar, tilts her head slightly, cups my shoulder in her hand.
I flex, and she laughs, suddenly.
Then she blushes.
I do it again, of course, and her cheeks turn even pinker.
“You’re blushing,” I tell her.
“No, I’m not,” she says, her eyes still on my arm.
I press myself against her, grip the edge of the counter, lift. Delilah bites her lips and tries not to laugh and the flush goes down her neck, but she also wraps her hands around my biceps and squeezes.
“The fuck are you blushing for, Bird?” I tease.
“Shut up,” she suggests, cocking her head to one side.
“You having a good time?”
“What did I just say?”
“That I should be seen and not heard, apparently.”
“Not what I said,” she says, still trying not to laugh, hands gripping my shoulders. “I’m a very sophisticated woman and I love you for your beautiful mind and exceptional wit.”
“But you want to fuck me because you like my muscles.”
Now she’s grinning, her hips shifting against mine. I wonder how wet she is already, and it’s tantalizing.
“And your personality, I guess,” she says, and hooks one finger under the top button of my shirt. “That’s not bad.”
She undoes the button, slides her hand down, undoes the next and the next until my shirt is open, her hands all over me. I kiss her again and she stands on her toes, her hips bucking against mine, the soft rhythm of her going straight to my aching cock.
I’m tempted in a thousand directions: to spin her around, bend her over, take her over the counter still mostly-clothed. I’m tempted to spread her right here and bury my face between her thighs. I’m tempted to let her get on her knees and watch her lips close around my cock.
But then she pushes my shirt over my shoulders and bites my lower lip, and before I’ve even gotten my shirt off her hands are tugging at the waistband of my pants, pulling me harder against her.
I grab her ass, lift her onto the counter, and she lands with a soft “Oh!” of surprise and a grin before I crush her mouth with mine, pinning her against the cabinets.
She wraps her legs around me, back arching. I lift her sweater and she pulls it off over her head, static electricity crackling and alighting in her hair, her skin bold and bright as ever. There’s a black tank top, too, and she pulls that off like she’s impatient.
Under the tank top is a black lace bra, her breasts swelling up and out of it, practically smashing the clockwork heart. With every breath she takes her skin presses against the fabric, straining against it.
Delilah goes to kiss me again but I grab her by a shoulder, hold her against the cabinet because I’m busy staring.
“I didn’t even tell you,” she says, breathless and amused all at once.
I run my other hand over a breath, slide my thumb along the seam between skin and lace.
“Tell me?” I echo, letting my other hand join it.
Fuck. Fuck. She leans back against the cabinet, toys with one finger under a black bra strap.
“I went to your house today,” she says. “I took the scrapbook over to see if you’d take me back.”