Page 55 of Almost Home
“You don’t ever have to apologize for your family, Wilder. I’ve always loved your mom, and your brothers.”
I smiled, the genuine sentiment rooting in between my ribs. She’d gotten along so well with my family. Her parents had tolerated me, and her little sister had nearly worshipped me—often a confusing mix for teen Wilder. In retrospect, I could see how my tendency to be quiet and slow to speak had come off as aloof, but at the time, I’d never understood their general reluctance for Sarah and me to spend time together.
“They love you, too.”
I could say it like that because I knew they still did. Obviously, Mom loved Sarah, even if there were things about her absence they needed to discuss. And Wyatt had been more protective of her than me when I’d first gotten back, constantly questioning whether I’d seen her and what I’d said. If I hadn’t known he was fully in love with and invested in Calla, I might’ve thought it was jealousy.
But it’d been that brotherly protection he’d developed for Sarah over the years of our friendship and then relationship.
When she left, I knew my mom had lost something. She’d loved having Sarah around, and neither of my brothers had had steady girlfriends. I got that. But it never occurred to me that Wy and Warrick had lost a sister of sorts. Grandma Tilda had lost a granddaughter. We’d all lost something, and then I’d left them, too.
Guilt etched into my gut. I straightened in my seat, refusing to take in my mom and her date again, then stood and held out a hand. “Ready?”
I didn’t mean for it to be a loaded question. I’d meant it as a question about now—was she ready to leave?
But the way her eyes glittered, steady and determined in their focus on me as she set her hand in mine and stood, made all of it feel weightier. And the softly spoken “Yes” did the same.
We exited the restaurant and walked with linked hands under the veil of stars sparkling overhead. My mind had emptied of all thought save one: she was ready. For what, exactly, I didn’t know, but for something more than simply leaving dinner, that was for sure.
The closer we got to her place, the more certain I was of her answer to the original question. But I needed her to speak, and I suspected part of her needed that, too—to actually voice her desires. So when we slowly ascended the stairs to her door, I asked again.
“What do you want, Sarah?”
Her throat worked to swallow, and her lips parted as if in slow motion. Maybe my mind was processing it in that way—wouldn’t be entirely unheard of for me.
If she couldn’t say it, then nothing could happen. I’d ignored all the reasons I had—and there were plenty of them—to resist this between us. She’d run away from me once, and I had no guarantee she wouldn’t do it again. No way of knowing how this would go.
But if she could admit to herself and me that this was happening between us, not just in my head or hers, maybe it could work. At least for a while, it could work. And maybe that’s all we needed, to try again, now, as the adults we’d become.
She looked down at our joined hands before saying, “I want something with you. If you want that, too.”
There was no stopping what came next. I gave her an answer with lips and no words. One hand at her back, one sliding into her hair at the base of her neck, I took her mouth like I’d been dreaming of for hours and days and weeks—and maybe it was time to be honest, years.
The sound she made, something soft and lush, made my stomach tighten. Her hands sifted into my hair at either side of my head and urged me closer. In seconds, the sweet, exploring kiss had turned to a blaze. This, after all, wasn’t our first kiss. We’d kissed a hundred times before, years and years ago. But this was Sarah, a woman with a whole life between now and the time we’d shared, and I was a man who’d been starved for her despite myself since the minute I saw her last December.
In truth, far longer.
Her kisses matched my own—deep, searching, and so delicious I could’ve died a happy man in that moment.
Being close to her, inhaling the same air and senses filled with her, I lost all measure of restraint. Our connection had always been fire and flame, and the weeks building to this moment preceded by years of separation hadn’t done anything to quell that heat.
“Wilder,” she said, her breath at my ear as I kissed the curve of her jaw then down the smooth column of her throat.
I made some kind of feral, senseless sound and continued my worship of her neck.
“Wilder, wait.”
I froze, her soft words shoving reality back at me.
I had her pinned against her front door, our bodies flush. One hand pulled at the sleeve of her shirt to expose more of her shoulder and the other sat low on the curve of her hip.
Too much too soon, idiot.I immediately let my hands fall away and stepped back. “Sorry. Sorry.”
She reached for and grabbed the placket of my shirt, eyes finding mine in the dim light. “Don’t apologize for wanting me as much as I want you, please.”
Her words registered at the same time her appearance did—hungry eyes, swollen lips, breathing a little rough. “Okay. Not sorry.”
Her face split into a delighted smile. “Fair enough. But I think we need to—”
