Chapter 13
13
Victoria
All day, I imagine where the note will be.
Lorenzo has been leaving me notes every day since the roof.
When I finally head back to my room, after a day in the sun, I find it.
The note is folded and sitting on my desk. Each time I get a note from him, a tiny stone accompanies it. I don’t understand the rocks, but I keep each one regardless.
Now at dinner, I stare at my mother’s vacant smile, and I almost laugh.
But I don’t. I just smile into my wine water goblet, like I’m hiding something scandalous. Because I am.
Under the table, I unfold it, heart already racing.
Boathouse. Midnight.
No greeting. No name.
And it thrills me.
Sneaking out of the house has become a strange kind of art. I love it.
Love the feeling when I tiptoe through the house and out the door.
It feels illicit. Addictive. Romantic in a way none of my books ever prepared me for.
And tonight, after dinner, when I slip out the back door with socks on, and a hoodie pulled tight over my nightgown, I feel… alive.
The night air wraps around me like a robe, and my socks grow damp from the wet grass. I hurry toward the old boathouse. The house lights vanish behind me, swallowed by trees and distance.
With every step I take, I leave my world behind. The expectations. The suffocation. The girl I’m supposed to be.
Out here, I get to be someone else. Someone reckless. Someone his.
The boathouse is quiet. The black ocean glimmers in the distance.
He’s already there. Of course he is.
Leaning against a beam, he has his hands in his pockets and his hair a mess. He is already wearing that smug little smile that drives me insane.
“You’re late.” He pushes off the beam with one lazy step, his voice dripping with amused accusation.
“You’re early,” I counter, stepping inside and letting the door swing shut behind me with a soft thud.
“You say that every time,” he drawls, trailing his gaze down my hoodie, my bare legs, the hem of my nightgown peeking out, and then at my wet socks.
At his stare, I lean down and peel them off, placing them down on the floor beside the door.
“Then maybe stop being so damn punctual,” I shoot back, standing before brushing a strand of hair out of my face.
“I like being here before you,” he admits with a shrug, pacing a slow arc toward me. “Gives me time to pace p>
“How charming,” I tease, lifting an eyebrow.
“I do my best.” He crosses the space between us until he’s standing in front of me. He reaches his hand out and pulls lightly at the drawstring of my hoodie. “It’s not easy being this neurotic p>
The corner of my mouth lifts because seeing him nervous feels wickedly intoxicating. It means I’m not the only one undone.
He continues to stand in front of me, and I wait for him to do something. Maybe kiss me? He doesn’t, though, and it feels intentional. Like he’s giving me time to run if I want to.
Which I don’t.
The air between us crackles like a struck match.
“You wore the hoodie.” His eyes drop, and they turn dark and satisfied.
“It’s your hoodie,” I remind him, twisting the fabric between my fingers.
He smirks, low and hungry. “It’s better on you p>
I roll my eyes even though heat curls low in my stomach. “Talk about a line p>
“Line?” he asks, closing the space until I can feel the warmth of his breath. “Then why do you keep coming back if I’m only giving you lines p>
I reach for his collar, fist it, and tug him toward me until our chests almost brush. “Because you leave notes in my books p>
“So this is your kink? Stationery or does it have to be in a book?” he teases, grin crooked and sinful.
“Don’t make it weird,” I warn, tightening my grip on his shirt.
“Oh, Little Bird,” he breathes against my mouth, “it was always weird p>
And then he kisses me. It’s soft at first, but not for long.
His hands slide to my waist, fingers digging into the fabric. My fingers thread into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan.
We press together like we’re trying to escape our own skins.
Like there’s no world outside this old wooden shack.
He groans against my mouth when I tug his hair harder. The sound shoots straight through me.
And I feel it. All of it. The ache. The want. The overwhelming relief of finally having something that feels like mine.
After a few more moments, we pull apart—barely.
His forehead rests against mine. His breath is hot. His chest rises hard and fast against mine.
“Jesus.” He brushes his thumb against my lip. “You’re going to be the death of me p>
“You like it,” I whisper, nudging my nose against his.
“That’s not the point,” he breathes, his eyes dropping to my mouth again like he’s fighting himself.
“Then what is?” I ask, fingers curling into his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer and begging to be kissed again.
He hesitates long enough to make my pulse trip, and then his voice drops, raw and unguarded.
“No one’s ever wanted me like this before. Sure, I’ve had girls, but this—this is different p>
The words hit me like a punch, and all the air leaves my lungs. I pull back just enough to look at him. Really look at him.
His eyes are serious. Dark. A little afraid. And I realize he means it.
Not just physically. Not in the shallow, temporary way people want something pretty or dangerous.
He means no one’s ever chosen him. No one ever thought he was worth sneaking out for. Worth breaking rules for. Worth fighting for.
“I want you,” I whisper, lifting his chin with my hand so he has to hear it.
His brows furrow, his breath shaking. “You shouldn’t p>
“But I do p>
He swallows, the muscles in his throat working hard. “Why?” he asks, voice cracking open.
“Because you see me,” I say, letting my fingers slide down his jaw. “Because you talk to me like I’m not fragile or foolish. Because you don’t want me quiet or perfect or still.” My voice trembles, but I don’t stop. “Because when you kiss me, I feel like I matter p>
His hand flies to my face.
Urgent.
Rough.
Almost desperate.
“You do matter, Little Bird,” he growls. “To me. You have no idea how much p>
I lean in. He meets me halfway.
Our mouths crash together again. It’s harder this time, hungrier, like we’re trying to memorize the shape of something doomed. We know the clock is ticking. And the notes won’t be enough for much longer.
His hands slide under the hem of my hoodie, finding the bare skin of my waist. I gasp into his mouth. He swallows the sound.
I press closer, chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat.
We move together like a storm. Crazy and relentless.
Fierce and breathless.
We are want and need.
Built-up passion simmering to explode.
It’s dangerous yet… perfect.
Then—suddenly—he pulls back. Just enough to break the kiss.
Why did he stop?
His forehead drops to mine, breath shaking. “We can’t,” he whispers, voice rough.
“Why?” I breathe, reaching up and sliding my fingers down the column of his throat.
“Because once I start wanting more with you”—his eyes close like the thought hurts—“I won’t be able to stop p>
I take his hand. Lift it. Place it flat against my racing heart.
“Then don’t stop p>
His eyes widen.
It looks like he has something more to say, but instead, he shakes his head and kisses me again.
Slower and deeper this time.
A kiss that says all the things he can’t say.
A kiss that says everything.