"Do you want to come inside? I have wine. Or not. Whatever you want." Owen's hands splay the air between us. "Shit, I’m nervous," he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Hey." My fingers find his thigh, pushing down until he looks over at me. "I want a glass of wine. Inside. Preferably with a view of the stars, if you have it."
Preferably with you naked and doing that yummy finger stuff from before.
His face softens, his frustration melting away. “I can do all that.”
He climbs from his car, and as he’s rounding the back, I flip open the visor mirror and do a quick check. My door opens and Owen's palm hangs in the open space, offering to help me out. Grabbing my purse, I take his offered hand.
He pulls me from the open door and closes it behind me, spinning me around once, slowly.
"Were you always such a gentleman?" I tease.
He was. Always. But I’d forgotten.
I let go of his hand, only to loop my arm through his, and we walk up the steps to his front door.
"I don't think so," he replies, pulling his keys from his pocket. "I was a horny teenager who only wanted one thing."
My shoulders shake with quiet laughter. "How is that different from right now?"
The lock slides out of its spot, and the sound is thunderous. Or is it my heart that I hear, beating away furiously in my chest?
Owen's eyes find mine, and they are so full. Of longing, concern, and a primal hunger. We are stuck here on the threshold, balancing on a precipice, dangerously close to falling over.
I don't know what tomorrow will bring. I don't have next steps. I've left behind my job and my life in NYC to come home and care for my mother, and instead I’ve found my old life waiting right where I left it.
But I do know what I want tonight.
Owen.
So I'm the one who turns the doorknob and the first to step into the dark house. And Owen follows behind me.
He understands what I've done, the statement I've made, and takes over. He steps around me in the entryway, flipping a switch. Light floods the living room. This place may have been built thirty-plus years ago, but the inside is recently remodeled. The floor is a ruddy reddish color, the tiles enormous. The walls are light, the furniture contemporary. The cathedral ceiling with exposed beams is the perfect complement to the style of the home.
"It's gorgeous," I tell him, impressed.
"Thanks. I can't take the credit though. Not really. I had help."
My stomach seizes. I nod, but don't ask. I don't want to know who has been beside him during the years I've been gone.
Owen leads me deeper into the house, and I follow. He steps into another room and turns on another light. The kitchen.
There is a large, butcher-block island, and the cabinets are navy blue with copper-colored handles. I hate how much I like what she picked out, whoever she was.
"Red or white?" Owen asks from where he stands beside the stainless-steel fridge.
"White," I answer. I'm feeling warm. I need something cool.
He opens the fridge, and I watch him reach in, all the way to the back. His shirt pulls up, revealing just a peek of skin, only a few inches, but what I see is tan and toned. My tongue sweeps through my mouth, moistening the sudden dryness.
He pulls away from the fridge, bottle in hand, and walks to a cabinet. After opening it, he selects two stemless white wine glasses and pours us each a drink.
Walking over to me slowly, he hands it to me. "I believe the stars were your next request?"
I swallow the lump in my throat and nod. I was the brave one, taking the first step, the biggest step, over the threshold and into his house. Now he's the one taking over. And I like it. I need it.
Nerves are creeping in, poking at me like little cactus needles. It's been a long time since we were together. What if it's a letdown? What if our memories have built up something that's impossible to reach?
"Come," Owen says, walking from the kitchen and motioning for me to follow. We walk through another room, but Owen doesn't turn on the light. In the soft glow cast by the kitchen I make out the shape of a pool table and I smile. Bachelor move.
Owen slides open a door and we step outside.
"Oh," I say without thinking, my voice a low, surprised moan. The sky is inky black, shot through with twinkling stars. Of course I knew it would be, but still, it's breathtaking.
"I know," Owen says, not needing an explanation. He settles into a seat on the outdoor couch, placing his drink on the table in front of him. I sit down beside him, close enough that we're separated by only a few inches, but I can feel the heat from his body. I lean back, and Owen tucks an arm over my shoulders.
I can’t believe I’m at Owen’s house, snuggling on his couch and watching the stars with a glass of wine. What that actual fuck is happening? I like it. I like grown-up Owen and I like grown-up us. His fingers graze my arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake.
His hand falls from my shoulder and touches my lower back, slowly stroking my skin through my clothes. The sensation of his fingers, even through the fabric, sends tremors down my spine. I snuggle deeper into him and his eyes darken, and when he speaks, his voice is deeper, huskier, causing my toes to curl.
"That’s Venus,” he points to a star in the sky, “the goddess of love, beauty … and sex."
My heart hammers in my chest, an unsteady and irregular beat.
I place my glass on the table beside Owen's, and when I look back at him, what I see in his eyes steals my breath.
Unconcealed lust, curling through his brown eyes, darkening them to nearly black.
"Owen…" I murmur his name, one word meant to convey so many. I've missed you. I'm sorry we messed up.
With the hand he still has on my back, he urges me forward. I comply; he grips my hip with his other hand, guiding me onto his lap so that I can straddle him.
I sink down onto him, feeling his bulk even through his jeans, a low, distorted moan slipping between my teeth.
"Autumn," he growls, cupping my neck and trailing his hand over my collarbone, down across my chest and into the chasm between my breasts. "So fucking beautiful."
My back arches and I push down harder onto him. His hand drops lower, winding its way around my back and stomach, his fingers searching for an opening in my romper.
"Can't get in," he grits, and it makes me smile.
"I wore it to prevent this from happening," I admit, biting the side of my lip and raising my eyebrows. I don't stop pushing down on his length, grinding against him as if we're fifteen again.
He crooks a grin. "How do I get you out of it?"
"Top down," I breathe.
His hands are at my shoulders, wasting no time. His fingers slip beneath the fabric and I gasp. His touch is searing, and I know, somehow I know, that this is dangerous.
To my heart.
To my head.
The threat is not enough to stop me. I want Owen. I want this night. I want to make up for all our long-ago wrongs.
The thousand cuts that took us down.
Chapter 15
Owen
She's stunning, sitting on top of me like this.
Her mouth opens and she sucks in a breath as my fingers dip under the fabric at her shoulders, tugging it down. For an article of clothing worn specifically to keep her bottom half out of reach, it gives surprisingly easy access to her top half.