It seems like a normal thing, socialization, but I haven’t ever received this many phone calls bearing negative news. Relief swells when I pick up my ringing phone later in the week and see that it’s Dane, until I remember I’m avoiding him too. I don’t know what to say to him. I’m a little ashamed that I lost control and let a song provoke me to react the way I did, and I’m bitter that the one event that has tested and hurt me most in my entire life had to come out by default. Yes, if Dane and I had continued to get to know each other, the discussion would’ve taken place at some point. Six months doesn’t seem like a long time in the grand scheme of things, but when you live those six months as an expectant mother—growing your baby, reading all the informative books, and talking to your swollen belly like the baby inside is already a fully-formed human—it changes you. I have all the mommy instincts and nowhere to put them to use. So it would be natural for it to come up in conversation someday, but not how it did.

I can normally adopt a pretty industrious fuck-it-all attitude, but not about this. So I set Dane on the backburner, again, and hope he doesn’t take it personally. With the goal of self-growth in mind, I don’t want to waste a second worrying about how someone else is going to respond to my baggage. I’m still working on accepting it myself. I try to put it out of my mind, I avoid listening to the radio—like Lynn advised—and I do the only thing that’s ever worked for me in the way of therapy. I run.

Serena was right about me running from my problems to a certain extent. It became my escape when Jenson chose the company of a bottle of liquor over me almost every night. It became my wings when everything else in life got so heavy it nearly drowned me. But in the aftermath of the fire, during the divorce proceedings and between my relocations, I lost the time and the drive for it. Now that I’m settled into a place where I anticipate staying more than a month, I have no excuse not to.

My sneakers pound the pavement like I’m trying to kick the road’s ass, and “Believer” by Imagine Dragons blaring through my earbuds fuels my exertions. There are no sidewalks in Heronwood unless you’re in the center of town, so I’m forced to stay on the edge of the road, but the scenery distracts my thoughts from the torturous pace I’m setting—to a certain extent. My calves are already burning at an embarrassingly early point in my trek, and though a breeze whips the strands of my ponytail, my sports bra is already soaked with sweat. My calories and my anger, on display for the world to see.

By the time I reach the mile-and-a-half mark, I’m so worn out that I’ve slowed to almost a crawl. I probably look half-dead to any passersby, but at least I’m out here making an effort. Just as one song fades into the next, allowing me to reintegrate into the surrounding world, I hear something else. Something rhythmic—too rhythmic to be caused by anything natural. It sounds like . . . footfalls. Thinking it’s all in my head, I glance back, scowling when I spot the Thor lookalike jogging on my trail.

“Well, I can’t say that’s the expression I wanted to see when I ran into you,” Dane puffs when he draws even with me.

I give up on my mission, slowing and stepping onto the shoulder. This is just perfect. First he dealt with the unexpected emotional breakdown of a woman he hardly knew, now he’ll witness her death by cardio.

“Why are you running with me?” I ask between gasps of air.

“Because you threw a fit when we went on a hike.”

“I did n—” I stop myself before I realize I’m on the verge of throwing a fit. “Okay, but why are you here?” I smooth the sweat-soaked stray hairs back from my face, but I can’t do anything about the violent shade of red I’m certain my cheeks are.

“Because I know not to leave these things in your hands,” he says, and I turn to face him. Much to my satisfaction, he’s winded, too, sweat running in rivulets down his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of a tight, dry-fit shirt. He plants his hands on his hips, pegging me with his gaze.

“What are you talking about?”

“You’ve been ignoring my calls, avoiding me. After what happened the other day, I didn’t want you to be, I don’t know, ashamed.”

“And why do you assume I was ashamed?”

“Give me a little credit here. I might be a dude, but I’ve seen enough already to know you overthink things. You’ll get into your head and refuse to talk to me because that’s the only way you know how to control the situation.”

I begin to sputter unintelligibly. That’s not true . . . is it? Am I so transparent, on top of being controlling? I gather my thoughts and say evenly, “I need some time. I have a lot to process.”

“Yeah, and how long will that be? A month? A year?”

My silence tells him everything he needs to know. His expression softens.

“Look, I’m willing to give you as long as it takes if time is what you need. But I need you to tell me if that’s really what you’re doing. I’ve been that person before, believe it or not. You push and push, and then when someone finally decides they’ve had enough, you blame them for giving up so soon.”

I take a step back as his barbed words collide with me. How dare he make those presumptions? “What if I’ve just decided this is all too much for me? And that maybe my shit is too much for you?”

Dane shakes his head, his jaw set. “That’s not your call. Let me decide whether your shit is too much for me.”

I roll my head back on my neck. Can nothing deter him? I don’t want to let him get too close without understanding the full extent of my emotional scars, and I don’t know if he does yet.

“What if I’ve decided I don’t like you?” It sounds immature, but it’s my last-ditch effort.

Dane just rolls his lips inward before he answers. “That’s fine. But you told me those things on our hike, so that means you trust me. And, using what I do know about you, trust is a lot more significant than anything else. I’m willing to work on the liking part.”

“You hardly know me, Dane.” A truck pulling a trailer full of cattle rattles past, but I hardly notice.

“I don’t, but I want to. Can’t you see that? That’s why I’m here.”

“What, creeping on me?” I turn back toward home, forcing my putty-like limbs to move. Dane shakes his head disbelievingly in my periphery.

“I’ll accept ‘persistently pursuing,’ but ‘creeping’ is a little much.”

Overhead, shafts of sunlight break through the clouds, and it feels like the temperature climbs a few degrees within seconds.

“Look, I just want to say my piece, then I’ll get out of your hair,” he says from beside me. I try vigorously fanning myself to cool off, but it’s not very effective. My patience is wearing thin.

“I think we’ve said enough today.”

“Well, there’s some shade up here and I’m headed for it. You can come if you want, or you can walk home like you’re so determined to,” he says, uncharacteristically abrupt.

Without waiting for an answer, his footsteps retreat, and I look over to see him making for a fence line shaded with huge, gnarled oaks. I take a few more steps toward home, losing momentum with each stride until I’ve all but stopped in place. Dammit, it’s hot. Avoiding his smug gaze, I stop just short of the section of fence where he’s claimed a seat, perched on the top board.

“Plenty of space to sit,” he says casually.

“I’m good where I’m at.” The shade offered by the canopy of the oak above us isn’t much, but I already feel better being out of the sun.

We don’t speak for almost a minute, Dane’s heel bumping against one of the lower slats of the fence marking the seconds. Then he finally looks at me and I’m subjected to the full force of his ocean-hued gaze, where curiosity and patience both battle for precedence. “I don’t know why you’re so afraid to tell me what you’ve been through, especially after the things I’ve told you.”

I pause in the middle of flapping my shirt, airing out my sweaty torso. “I moved out here for one reason, Dane. Remember? Quiet simplicity. That’s it. There was nothing simple about the past five years of my life, and showing up here, ranting about my past mistakes, wouldn’t do anyone any good.”

“Talking about those things doesn’t make you weak, you know. Vulnerability doesn’t make you weak. Look, we’re both alone in a way. You have nowhere else to go, and I can’t go anywhere else. You put up a wall between you and the rest of the world, but I’ve been trying to prove to you that you don’t have to do that with me. I thought we were getting somewhere on that hike.”

“The hike where you tricked me,” I add.

“I might’ve used a little strategy, but I didn’t trick you. You told me those things because you’re tired of hiding it all, and part of you just wanted someone to see you for you, not what the articles or the rumors say. I never expected there to be more.”

His words are like a crowbar, prying open my heart. I can feel the gap widening and everything straining to pour out. It makes me panicky. I concentrate on keeping my voice even and steady. “Which is why I did you a favor when I gave you some space. It’s never fun to be caught off guard with news like that.”

“You’re not doing anyone any favors. Not even yourself.” His foot bumps harder against the wood. “Why did you show up at my house a couple weeks ago?”

“To apologize.”

He shakes his head, unaccepting of my answer. “You can by honest with me, Raven. If nothing else, at least be honest about us. What did you go there for?”

“To find out if you were some kind of criminal,” I answer. It’s halfway honest.

“And why did that matter so much if you didn’t give a shit about me?”

Because for once, I wanted to be the one to pour gasoline on the fire and watch as it engulfed me. I wanted to be consumed by something that would leave no room for distractions. “I was curious,” I finally say, barely above a whisper.

“You’re not alone in that.” He directs his eyes elsewhere, as if sensing how flighty his gaze makes me. “And what are you curious about, Raven?”

I don’t have to ponder that for long. I automatically say, “Everything.”

He nods. “I want to show you something. Tomorrow. The place that means more to me than anywhere else.” At my cautious expression, he adds, “It doesn’t even have to be a date. You can come, you can listen to what I have to say, you can leave. Whatever you feel like doing. And, I’ll tell you everything.”

 

 

“Should I be wearing something special? Give me some sort of clue,” I call out from the top of the stairs.

Dane appears below, resting against the creaky bannister. “Wear comfortable shoes. We’re just going for a walk.”

“Another walk? We’re not hiking again, are we?” I hear him laugh, even as I return to my closet to grab my sneakers.

“No. Don’t worry about it. Just come on.”

“O-kay, Mr. Demanding.”

Once I’ve pulled on my shoes and gotten into his truck, we turn east onto the highway. I would try to guess where we’re going, but I don’t know enough about my surroundings. Maybe I should get used to going with the flow; it seems necessary with a guy like him.

Along with mentioning that the place we’re going to means more to him than anywhere else, Dane said there was more for us to talk about. After our few encounters, it makes me wonder what could possibly be left to tell. Still, I manage to keep my questions to myself. This is me “going with it.”

Dane pulls off the road at a nondescript gate, climbing out to open it and driving through, then we’re bouncing down a neglected dirt road. We only drive for a short time before he turns off into the trees, putting the truck in park. I swivel in my seat to get a look at where we are. It seems we’re nowhere.

“All right, where are we?” I ask as I’m getting out. Apparently, there’s a time limit to my suppressed curiosity.

“My family’s property, but way back behind the house.” He appears around the truck carrying a lantern, and he takes my hand. I thought we were supposed to be avoiding this place, but I guess that explains the roundabout way we took to get here.

“At least you’re not making me carry a backpack this time,” I say as we set off through the woods, his hand warm in mine.

“It’s not far, or I would’ve. This was my favorite place to be growing up. Out here in the trees, it was like nothing else existed. No school, no pressure, no asshole kids.”

“Just Trey,” I point out.

Dane chuckles. “I assumed he was nice to you.”

“He was, but I can see past his bullshittery.”

“You’re one of the few, then.”

I study his face. “Did you two ever get along?”

Dane contemplates that for a few strides. “We did, back when times were simpler. That was a long time ago, though.”

“Age changes things.” I should know. Once my sister reached dating age, she became a monster. Still is.

“Age . . . decisions . . . character. There’re a lot of reasons why we don’t see eye to eye. That’s why I can only stand to work at the shop a few days a week.”

“I hear ya. But balancing two jobs is no picnic.”

“It has its moments, but I can’t complain. Max and I make a great team building homes. Which is why I have all those man-tools,” he adds, inclining his head toward me.

“Ahh, that explains it.” Looking ahead, I nod toward the thickening trees. “You know, this is starting to look like the beginning of a bad horror movie. Charming guy leads innocent, unsuspecting girl into the woods under the pretense of ‘telling her all about his rumored past.’ Girl is never seen again until she’s found dead in a creek a week later.”

“Innocent and unsuspecting?” he asks, raising a brow.

I ignore the dig. “Just promise me if you end up offing me out here, you’ll do it fast.”

His sidelong glance makes my stomach do flip-flops. It’s almost becoming a pattern—walks in the woods with Dane stirring up feelings and sensations that life has buried. I underestimate this man daily.

A trail of worn dirt materializes the further we go, snaking through the red oaks. It appears to be well traveled. We trudge ahead until a looming shape comes into view about midway up one of the trees. The wood is weather-beaten and sun-bleached, the angles too perfect to be formed by nature. It’s a treehouse. Dane’s look of nostalgic awe confirms it as our destination.

When we reach the base, I deduce that the slats of wood nailed in somewhat even increments up the trunk are a makeshift ladder, but I don’t think I’d trust it to hold anyone over fifty pounds. I take hold of one of the boards and wiggle, but it doesn’t give. That does nothing to reassure me.

“After you.”

I look sharply at Dane. “You better have a real ladder in your back pocket or something.”

He pats the trunk of the tree with familiar fondness. “There’s a perfectly good ladder right here. Trust me, I’ve replaced these boards more times than I can count.”

“Can you count past three?” That comment earns me a steady, simmering look. Okay, then. Clapping my hands on my hips, I say, “I do not trust these toothpicks to handle all this.”

Dane scoffs. “If they can handle all this”—he imitates my gesture—“then you’ll be no problem.” He rests his shoulder against the tree, and the look he gives me is daring, provocative. I don’t doubt that at this moment, he could talk me into anything. “You’re looking at my most sacred place. The only place I could be me, in my truest form. You want to know everything?” He juts his chin up toward the tangle of wood and nails that will just have to support me and all my baggage because, with an explanation like that, I’m prepared to climb that matchstick ladder to see what, or who, I find at the top.

“Trust me,” he urges.

I wrap my hands around the highest rung I can reach, while at the same time bearing down slowly on another with my foot, but the wood doesn’t budge. So far, so good.

“Solid as a rock,” Dane says, but I won’t proclaim victory until I’ve made it to the top in one piece.

I lift my opposite leg higher, alternating grips and steps until I reach the landing, shimmying up through the opening. The room is awash with evening sunlight streaming through windows cut out of each wall, muted shafts dancing over wooden crates and dusty action figures and water-spotted comics. There’s a makeshift bench crafted from a single plank of wood resting atop a few cinderblocks. More boards and cinderblocks create a sort of shelving unit on the opposite wall. As far as treehouses go, this one is impressive. I can see why a boy would rather be up here than on the ground. Hell, I’d probably rather be up here than on the ground most days.

Something squeezes my foot, and I drag my attention away from the interior to find that Dane’s already summited the ladder, all while holding onto the lantern. Dragging my feet inside, I shift to make room for his breadth. I walk on my knees over to one of the windows and peer out, taking in our surroundings from a squirrel’s point of view. There’s nothing marvelous to command attention amongst the mottled browns and greens of the woods, but it’s peaceful. I’ve learned with age that there’s a beautiful simplicity to peace.

“That’s it. I have to have a treehouse. But a real one I can actually live in. With a wine-opener. And a retractable ladder so I can keep people out.”

Dane chuckles softly behind me, and I peer over my shoulder to determine whether he’s being patronizing or not. He’s sitting on the floor, resting his head and back on the wall across from me, elbows propped on his knees. But it’s not his relaxed stature that attracts my attention. He’s looking back at me with eyes filled with a million different things; shadowed thoughts flickering across his irises, the fading light intensifying his expression. Who knew that easygoing Dane could be so . . . pensive? That look sends a wave of electric energy crackling down my spine, spreading from nerve to nerve until, in no time, my entire body feels both warm and alive. Like I have the potential to do anything. It’s a dangerous, intoxicating feeling.

“What did you used to do up here?” I ask, looking around at all his old things until the rush disperses. There’s a cracked baseball glove, some tattered playing cards, and a few worn ballcaps amidst all the other boyish mementos. What I didn’t notice earlier is that everything seems to have a place. Instead of being spread in careless heaps, everything is arranged in neat stacks, tucked into crates, or up on the shelves. It hardly resembles the no-girls-allowed clubhouses written about in the middle-grade stories.

“Hmm. What did I not do?” he muses, his eyes unfocused as he thinks back. “This was the site of sleepovers and the base for hide-and-seek. It was where a million games of ‘truth or dare’ and ‘never have I ever’ were played. It was the place to plan the future—where we’d go to college, which baseball teams we would be drafted to . . .” he trails off.

“Did you do any of those things you planned?” I ask, suspecting I know the answer before he confirms it.

“No.”

I lift one shoulder in a shrug. “Just so you know, college is overrated. I went for a semester and a half before finding out it wasn’t for me. It felt like my insides were clawing their way out when I was there. I hated it.”

“Why is that?”

“I think I followed what everyone else was doing, what I thought you were ‘supposed to do,’ before realizing that maybe the path everyone else was taking might not have been the right one for me. I enrolled in dental hygiene school and haven’t regretted it since. What works for some doesn’t always work for others.” I trace circles in the dust on the wooden bench, considering my past. So many events I hadn’t accounted for, unexpected relationships formed—Jenson, namely. Can I really say I harbor no regrets about all of those things too? There have been so many diversions from the journey I expected to take through life, but perhaps there was a lesson to learn in all of them. There’s something peaceful about realizing that. Maybe it’s this place. Maybe it’s this man.

“Maybe that’s what you did—took a detour from the path you thought you were supposed to take. That doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with it,” I say softly.

“Oh, there was plenty wrong with some of the things I did. And I didn’t just take a detour. I ended up on a dead-end road to nowhere.”

On the inside, I brace myself. “Why do you think that?”

He blows out a breath, shrugging like he doesn’t know where to begin, or maybe because he doesn’t want to.

“You told me before that you have to earn the right to leave. Does that have something to do with it?”

It doesn’t take a genius to see that he’s conflicted. His struggle is depicted in his pulsating jaw and fidgeting fingers as he debates how much he wants to tell me.

“Yes. God, how do I say this?” He lets his head fall back against the wall, staring at the ceiling like there’s nothing he’d rather avoid more. It makes the hairs on my arms raise. “Trey has something on me. Something to keep me here.”

My brows furrow, but I don’t speak. I don’t want to disrupt the fragility of this moment.

“Something he can use to tie me to a crime I had no involvement in.”

As if the foreboding pitch of his voice didn’t worry me enough, the finality of his words seems to strike me physically. My blood freezes, moving at a glacial place through my veins. “Something like, what, information? Would that even hold up in court?” I ask.

He’s withdrawn when he answers. “Evidence. It’s pretty indisputable.”

Inside, my heart seems to punch my chest wall. I scramble to remember all the seemingly inconsequential details from the crime shows I’ve watched. There’s a lot that goes into solving a crime. Innocent until proven guilty, right? “But you didn’t do it. You weren’t there, were you? So what kind of evidence could get you convicted, Dane? Especially after so long?” I’m blabbering. If I thought his other confessions were shocking, I was sorely prepared for this one.

“It’s a gun, Raven. My gun. Registered to me, with my fingerprints on it,” he says. His answer knocks the wind out of me.

A gun. But for what, robbery? Murder? I want to know, but at the same time I don’t.

When I find my voice, I ask, “But how is that possible? Not that I don’t believe you, I’m just having trouble understanding.”

“Someone had to have used it purposely, knowing that I’d be taking the fall.”

“Isn’t there a time limit for something like that?”

“Not for a crime like this.”

The temperature seems to drop a dozen degrees, and my voice is wracked with desperation when I say, “But it’s safe with Trey, right? He’s your brother.”

He makes a disgusted sound in the back of his throat. “You don’t know him.”

I never thought my impression of a person could change so quickly, but just like that, my casual dislike for Trey blossoms into vapid hatred. His smug face appears in my mind, and all I can think of is how satisfying it would be to sink my nails into it. I can’t imagine how demented someone would have to be to hold this above his own brother’s head.

“How bad is it, Dane?”

“It’s bad.” There’s a rare flicker of solemn resolve in eyes that have already witnessed so much.

“So who took the blame if it wasn’t you?”

“The cops pinned it on someone who was tied to the victim and was spotted in the area that night. I have a feeling that person was involved, but I don’t know who pulled the trigger.”

So it’s murder, then. The man I’m falling for could be framed for murder. “You could still leave. You could run,” I volunteer meekly.

Dane shakes his head. “I don’t want to run. And besides, if all this comes to light, I’d have to change my name, my entire identity, everything. Even if I had the resources to do that, what kind of life would that be?”

It’s difficult to absorb everything I’ve just learned while my mind reels. Is he stuck here? Are all his relationships destined to take place in secrecy, tucked up in childhood treehouses? On secluded trails? “So what are you going to do?”

His shoulders cave a little. “To explain, I need to go back to the beginning. I never dealt, those days after I lost my mom, but I did other things. Driving, drop offs, meet-ups. When I stopped using and finally got it in my head to get my life together, I told Trey I didn’t want anything else to do with it. I made a few of my own contacts over the years, people who trusted me over my brother, and most of them refused to continue doing business with my family when I dropped out. Trey was so wrapped up in it, even then, that he was pissed. I thought he’d kill me himself. He showed me the gun, used it to threaten me. He told me I could go to prison or we could make a deal. So we made an arrangement, settled on an amount. I’ve been paying him off for a crime I didn’t commit for seven years. It’s the only way he’s left me alone for so long.”

Nausea rolls through me, and I drop my head between my knees in order to breathe. Part of me suspected he was staying here because he was too scared to leave, because he didn’t want to start over in a town where his name didn’t hold the same weight it does here. I feel sick for that misjudgment, and even sicker that he’s been shackled here, dealing with the consequences of someone else’s malicious decision, for years.

“So if you’re wondering how I spend my time when I’m not with you, just know that everything I’m doing is to get out. Any way you twist it, it’s still wrong; I’m still affiliated with criminals. But I’m working my ass off to dig myself out of this thing. If I leave, I want to do it straight. No strings attached.”

I open my eyes, search him out in the growing darkness. “Is there a straight way out of a crooked business?”

Dane focuses on where he’s picking the calluses on his hands like he’s trying to shed the layers of his past. “I don’t know, but I have to try.”

Feelings I expected and didn’t—heart-wrenching sympathy and admiration and something that feels a little like lust—swirl together in my mind, distorting everything I thought I knew. I didn’t want to be involved in anything this town had to offer, but now I feel inexorably invested in this man and his story, unable to separate myself without damaging a little of him and a little of me in the process. I feel a sad sense of déjà vu: this is something I can’t make right.

When my eyes find Dane’s again, he’s studying me. Just watching me process with that determinedly grim expression on his face. Like he knows there’s a possibility I could leave and he wouldn’t blame me if I did. It hurts to see him so bleak.

“This treehouse is like truth serum, you know. Kind of like your eyes.”

“My eyes?” he asks.

“I feel like I can tell you anything when I look into them.”

“You’ve done a good job deterring me, then. Me and my truth-serum eyes.”

“It’s been difficult, trust me. But I have nothing more to hide.” He nods slowly in agreement. “Tell me another truth. A nicer truth.”

He pulls in a breath, and with each second he spends releasing it, his face seems to relax. Relief smooths the creases in his forehead and the grimness in his eyes, and his expression slackens into something much more familiar. “Every second I’ve spent with you feels . . . big. I don’t know if it’s because you’re so different from anyone around here—because you’ve seen so much and somehow chose this place over all the others—but somehow I know the newness will never wear off. I can’t explain it.”

I look away and bite my lip, suddenly self-conscious. It’s hard for me to see the woman he does when he looks back at me with that latent intensity. The magnitude of the situation begins to settle in—the remote treehouse, the darkness, the fact that there’s a man sitting across from me, silhouetted against the incoming moonlight, that I was only resisting because I thought his history was much too twisted to get involved with. Maybe it is. Maybe I should go running in the opposite direction. Then again, maybe it’s a soul like his that mine’s been craving.

“Don’t do that.” The gently insistent tone of his voice lures my focus back to him.

“What?”

“Hide from me again. After everything I’ve told you, there’s nothing you ever need to be ashamed of. Nothing, Raven.” I scoff, but he’s shaking his head in a way that makes my mouth snap shut. “I’m convinced that every single thing about you is beautiful. Especially your scars. So don’t be ashamed of them.”

I feel my bones dissolve, melting into gelatin. Ever since I moved here, it seems like all I’ve done is hide. I’m sure it began long before that, when I lost my baby girl and it seemed like everybody in the world was gauging my grief and judging my anguish. Then, after, with my and Jenson’s troubles. It seemed easier to conceal who I was instead of allowing people to see the person all my life experiences have culminated into. I never knew the weight of the disguise I was wearing until Dane somehow convinced me to take it off.

I look at him timidly, unsure if I can withstand much more. He raises his chin and says, “There is something undeniably sexy about someone who’s experienced so much and still finds a reason to smile on the other side.”

With that, what little remains of the carefully-constructed defenses around my heart shatters. For once, I let them fall. I drop from the low bench onto my knees, walking my way over to him. And he’s ready. His legs part, and he opens his arms, intercepting me as I drag each of my knees over his legs to straddle his hips. When our lips finally meet again, it’s like taking a long drink of water after a journey through the desert. This kiss is sustaining, fulfilling, electrifying. His stubble crackles beneath my hands as I drag them over his jaw and into his hair, smooth as silk through my fingers.

When he cups my backside roughly against him, I instinctively tighten my grip on his hair and he groans into my mouth. That primal noise sparks the need in me, amplifying the intensity. Our kiss tiptoes the line between passionate and desperate, sometimes crossing it entirely. Tongues intertwine—tasting, sucking. I’ve never experienced anything like this. It’s like watching the meeting of two storm systems; a collision of opposing forces that cannot be restrained. It’s infectious, and I match his haste move for move. We’re as close as we can get and yet, if you fused our skin, bound our cells and bones, I’m still not sure it would feel close enough.

Before I can prepare, he’s up on his knees, holding me against him, then he’s laying me back on the floor of the treehouse and suspended above me. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt so frenzied, so hyper-aware of the hands beneath my shirt, stroking my sides and my belly and my breasts; the sucks beneath my ear that send daggers of desire firing through me; the key to his undoing pressed against me, between my legs. I arch up to meet him and I’m pleased when he responds, rolling his hips.

When I reach between us and find the button of his jeans, he stills, and the sudden cease in motion makes me pause. He hooks a finger into the scoop-neck of my shirt and drags it down, exposing my collarbone to his lips. Murmuring against my skin, he says, “I don’t know if you want to do this here.”

I glance down, meeting his darkened eyes, convinced I’ve never been so sure of anything when I respond, “I don’t want to wait.” I fist my hands in his shirt, as far down as I can reach, inching it up and over his head.

“Neither do I,” he says, and our lips crash together again. I lean up so he can take off my shirt, comforted by the fact that it’s so dark. Still, he pauses as if to drink me in, then runs his lips from the hollow of my throat down between my breasts to the soft, responsive skin of my belly. Peeling the waistband of my jeans down, he kisses from one hip bone to the other, and my breath catches. It’s been a long time since I’ve been intimate with anyone, and his proximity to the place I’m most self-conscious about makes me uneasy.

Sensing my nervousness, Dane slows, watching my eyes as he runs his lips and his tongue over my hipbone, trading kisses and sucks up my rib cage to the cups of my bra. He runs a hand up my side to where the strap runs around my back, asking with his eyes if it’s okay. I release a steady breath, shifting to give him access to the clasp. With deft fingers, he snaps it open, freeing my arms from the straps and pulling it away. I’m almost appalled when he shakes his head, but then he groans. “God, you’re killing me.”

I cover my face with my hands so I don’t overanalyze what his expression means as he takes in my half-naked body, but he tugs them gently away. “What are you hiding from?”

“It’s been awhile since I’ve been naked in front of someone. One wrong look could ruin me.”

He glances pointedly toward the tenting of his jeans. “You’ve got it all wrong. It’s you who could ruin me.”

I reach down to see just how strongly he believes that, and he drops his forehead to mine as I slide my hand between cotton and skin and take hold of him. And now I am certain I want nothing more than to have his lips on mine again, filling me with the carefree abandon I felt the night I crawled across the table and into his lap. For just a few minutes, he made me feel like someone with less worries, less issues. And that was only with a kiss. I can’t imagine what I’d forget if we went any further—if I filled my body with him, not only my head.

When Dane leans up on his knees and his hands go to my own waistband, I nod, shifting my hips so he can peel the jeans from my legs. The only thing that remains between us now is a scrap of cotton. He returns to me, and when his hand slides beneath the material and finds the place where every ounce of need and tension is concentrated, his mouth quickens on mine, his tongue caressing in time with the hand between my legs.

His motions are slow at first, working around my underwear and treating me gently. I appreciate the thoughtfulness, but I don’t want gentle. I want our bodies to meet with the intensity our words have carried over the past few weeks. I want the tension to snap like a rubber band with our release. I push his jeans and briefs just over the curve of his backside, freeing him and using my grip on the denim to guide him where I want him. Dane pauses just long enough to retrieve a foil packet from his wallet—a nearly impossible feat, considering the bunched state of his pants—then rolls on the condom and raises his eyebrows at me.

I bite my lip in anticipation and nod. He finally sinks into me, pausing at the point where he’s sheathed completely and can go no further, causing me to moan into his shoulder. Then he begins to rock against me.

After so much time spent at arm’s length, we’re both hurried and not, relishing the feel of each other, then rushing because we can’t possibly get our fill. There’s so much to be said about the things I’m feeling that words couldn’t possibly encompass them. So I’m silent, for the most part, while Dane’s fingers sink into my hip, anchoring me against him, his mouth attaches to mine, and we move together as though we are two parts of one being.