Page 189 of Lost Then Found
“Let me clean you up,” I say, voice softer now, more careful.
She shakes her head before I’m even finished. “It’s fine.” She’s already reaching for her underwear, trying to brush it off, her face flushed like she’s suddenly shy.
But I’m already moving.
I tear a couple of rough paper towels from the busted-ass dispenser, run it under warm water, and drop to one knee in front of her. I drag it up her thigh—slow, gentle, quiet. Not because I have to. Because I want to.
Her eyes track my face as if she’s not sure what to make of me kneeling here, cleaning her up like it matters. Likeshematters.
She watches me, silent now, eyes flicking over my face like she can’t decide if I’m serious or not.
And I am. I mean every second of this—every slow drag of the towel, every careful touch. I’m not just cleaning her up, I’m taking care of her. Because the whole world can burn down if it wants to, but I’ll still be right here—on the floor of this shitty bathroom—making sure she’s okay.
It hits me, sudden and sharp that this is all I want. Not just the sex, not just the fire.Her.All of her. The loud, reckless parts and the soft, quiet ones she doesn’t show often. I want to be the one she lets in. Who knows her better than anyone else ever could. Who sees her messy and wild and beautiful and doesn’t turn away but leans in closer instead.
I’d get on my knees for her a hundred times over. Wipe her clean, hold her steady, pick her up when she’s too stubborn to admit she needs it. That’s what I want—not just tonight, not just here. Always.
I drag the towel up her thigh one last time, catching the trail of cum justabove her knee, and toss the paper towel in the trash. My hands linger on her legs, not wanting to let go just yet.
She shifts, just barely, and murmurs, “Thank you.”
Quiet. Almost like letting me do this for her feels too close, too real.
I straighten up, take her face in my hands, and kiss her and it’s just the two of us breathing the same air, tasting each other like we’ve got all the time in the world.
When I pull back, I make sure she’s looking at me—really looking.
“Anything for you,” I say, voice low but steady. “You hear me? Anything.”
She nods, just once, small and quick. Then she leans in and kisses me again, soft this time, like she’s telling me something she doesn’t have words for. Her lips linger on mine, and I feel it in my chest, that pull she has on me—like gravity, like I don’t get a choice in it.
Another knock at the door shakes the moment loose, louder this time, impatient. We move fast. I reach for my jeans, hauling them up, still trying to catch my breath as I fasten my belt. She’s in front of the mirror, calm, focused, already stepping back into that tiny skirt, shimmying it up over her hips like this is just unapologetically a part of her night. Her eyes stay locked on her reflection, smoothing the fabric into place.
I can’t stop watching her.
She glances over, catching me. “What?”
I shake my head, a grin pulling at my mouth. “You’re fucking amazing, you know that?”
Her eyes narrow, half amusement, half disbelief. Her fingers rake through her hair as she turns back to her reflection, trying to tame it into something that doesn’t scream that she just got fucked senseless, but it’s a losing game.
Her lips are swollen, bitten red. Her cheeks flushed. She drags her tongue over her bottom lip slowly, then mutters, “Jesus. Ilooklike I just had sex in a bar bathroom.”
I step in behind her, my chest to her back, arms sliding around her waist.
“That’s because you did,” I murmur against her neck, dropping a kissthere before brushing my mouth against her ear. “And you’re about to do it again. In my bed. Then the shower. Then maybe the kitchen, if I can wait that long.”
She lets out a soft, breathy laugh, shaking her head as she lightly swats my shoulder. “You’re a menace.”
“I’m consistent,” I whisper, still grinning.
She smooths her skirt like she’s trying to make herself presentable, like any amount of adjusting is going to hide what we’ve just done. It won’t. She’s glowing, and anyone with eyes will know exactly why.
The door creaks open, and the girl from earlier rushes past us, eyes wide like she’s been waiting outside this whole time. She mutters something about her lipstick and disappears into the bathroom without a glance in our direction.
Lark’s hand brushes mine and I lace our fingers together like I’ve been doing it my whole life.
When we step back out into the bar, it hits me all at once—the thrum of bass from the band in the corner, the low lights casting everyone in amber-gold, the mix of sweat, smoke, and spilled whiskey on the floor. The song playing is some old outlaw country track that people only dance to when they’ve had just enough to forget their regrets.
