One Last Time: A Second Chance Romance

by Roxie Noir

  I’m rendered fully speechless.

  “I thought Terry, Larry, and Jerry would like it,” Seth finally says.

  I clear my throat. I clear it again. I’ve completely forgotten everything that I was going to say to him.

  “I can’t say I know their taste in architecture, honestly,” I tell him.

  I’m still staring.

  “You built a raccoon castle?” I say. “That’s what I’m looking at, right?”

  “Yep,” he confirms. “You like it?”

  “I do,” I say, and that breaks the spell. I step forward, touch a turret, look into it. I crouch and look through the doorway. It looks big enough for all three of them to fit in at once, though I’ve got no idea if raccoons snuggle.

  Then I straighten, face Seth. He’s watching me, his eyes still cerulean in the faded light.

  “I like you,” he says, and a smile tugs at one corner of his mouth. “That’s all, really. I like you. I like that you’re funny. I like that you’re stubborn. I like that you’re always up for adventure and I like that you only have really weird liquor in your house and I like that you have a million beautiful tattoos and I even like that you feed disease-ridden varmints because you’re soft-hearted.”

  This time, I know better than to ask about the but.

  “I like you too,” I say. “Even when I wish I didn’t.”

  “I can’t be without you any more,” he goes on, softly. “I thought I could, but I was wrong every single time.”

  He steps forward, puts a hand on my cheek. The floodlights behind us flick off, and suddenly we’re in the slate-blue of near darkness.

  “I’m the man who’ll answer every time you call,” he says, simply. “Whatever you ask, I’ll say yes. Like it or not, Bird, I’ll be yours until the the day I die.”

  I take a deep breath and put my hand over his, slot our fingers together.

  “I’m not gonna leave you for someone who likes golf,” I say, softly. I don’t trust my voice because I’m afraid I’m about to start crying. “That’s not what I want. I want you. If I wanted someone else, I’d be with someone else.”

  I swallow hard, close my eyes.

  “I know it took a long time to get here, but it’s you, Seth.”

  He kisses me, then. His other hand cups my other cheek and he kisses me, softly. Carefully, but not gently, like he knows exactly the pressure I can bear.

  “You’re enough,” he murmurs, my face still in his hands. “You were always enough. You always will be.”

  Now it’s my turn to kiss him, my hand on his face, my fingers curled in his hair, suddenly possessive. The still-healing star on my wrist winks at me in the darkness, and after a long kiss, I pull away.

  “You were right,” I tell him. He raises one eyebrow. “Back at the condo, when you found the box of stuff from my ex—"

  “I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

  I put my fingers over his mouth. He raises the other eyebrow, too.

  “I tried to erase you and I couldn’t,” I tell him. “You were always there, Seth, even when I tried so hard to forget you. I tried to replace you and wound up calling you the moment I filed for divorce.”

  I slide my fingers from his lips, and he takes my hand.

  “You never told me that part,” he says.

  “It was an hour after Nolan got the papers,” I say. “Sixty minutes to work up my nerve, just in case I had to beg.”

  I take half a step back, hand him the scrapbook. The first page is us at Ava’s wedding, one of the professional shots. We’re dancing, in each other’s arms. He’s grinning and I’m laughing, the people behind us a blur. Instead of all the stuff we bought for the scrapbook, the page under the photograph is a drawing, all in pink and gold: the wedding fading into bubbles, drifting away; a bird winging its way across the top.

  Seth holds it up to the nearly-gone light, brings it in. Turns, so his shadow isn’t over the book.

  The next page: the program from a production of Guys & Dolls our high school put on. A piece of torn notebook paper that says Delilah Loveless in my big, loopy teenage handwriting. On the page underneath, the view of the football field from the nook where we first kissed. I can tell from his face that he recognizes it, even in the low light.

  Seth holds out his hand, and I take it. We walk back to my house, past the cars, go inside. We sit on the couch, his arm around me, and I look at what I was up most of the night making.

  In the end, I didn’t lay it out the way Ava thought I should. The book doesn’t tell a story because we both know the story already, by heart, inside and outside and upside down.

  It’s more abstract: organized by mood, feeling, sense. The first time I met his family is grouped with when he gave me a key to his college apartment: times when his home was mine. A prom photo and a hotel key, together. The coaster from Fall Fest backed by a two-page almost-pornographic drawing of us, horizontal on a couch. All that’s visible is one nipple, but it’s clear what’s going on.

  Seth understands. He knows, intuitively, laughs at some of the pages, runs his fingers over others like he wants to touch what’s inside them. He teases me sometimes and kisses me sometimes and when he reaches the last page I’m curled into him, still on my couch, my head in the curve of his neck.

  It’s the label from a bottle of Frog Holler Cider, pulled off and stuck to the page. On it there’s a picture of the barn and an apple tree, and on the page underneath I drew the rest of the scene: hills behind, stars above. In the distance, two tiny figures holding hands.

  “That’s the night I knew it could work,” I say, softly. I don’t know if it’s the most romantic thing, but it’s the truest thing.

  “I knew before that,” Seth says, pulling me in closer.

  I nuzzle against his neck.

  “No, you didn’t,” I say.

  “I did. I knew in the car.”

  I’m laughing. So is he.

  “No, you didn’t,” I say again.

  “I had a vision,” Seth says. “Of us in twenty years, my hair going gray, and you in the passenger seat with a giant map arguing with me about directions. And I knew.”

  “What, that we could argue?”

  “That I loved you,” he says, the rumble of his voice reverberating through me. “And that whatever happened, I’d fight for it.”

  Tears prick at my eyes, and I bite my lips together. Take a deep breath.

  “I love you too,” I say, and we kiss again.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Seth

  The sliding glass door in the living room opens and closes again, and a few seconds later, Delilah comes back into the kitchen with the plastic container of kibble.

  “Nothing just yet, but I think I tempted them,” she says. “Once they’re in front of their new digs, they’ll be curious and check it out, right?”

  I rinse the dish soap from a pan, then stack it on her dishrack.

  “Maybe they need better treats to tempt them,” she muses, leaning back against the counter next to the sink. “Do raccoons like filet mignon?”

  I give her a look, trying not to smile, and wash a spatula.

  “What about chocolate truffles?” she goes on, pure mischief in her voice.

  I take a deep breath, shut the water off, and reach for the towel, determined not to be baited.

  “Oh! Lobster!” she exclaims. “Everyone likes lobster, right?”

  “They’re varmints!” I finally say, despite myself.

  Delilah laughs, and I toss the towel onto the counter opposite her.

  “They eat trash,” I tell her, though I’m grinning. “And they’re a damn nuisance.”

  She leans forward, grabs the front of the button-down flannel shirt I’m wearing, and pulls me toward her.

  “You’re a nuisance,” she says.

  “I’m a nuisance who just did the dishes while you frolicked with the local fauna,” I tell her, anchoring my hands on the edge of the counter.

  “Well, the dream is
to go full Snow White and have the animals do the dishes while we lounge around eating ice cream,” she teases. “Besides, do I even need to remind you who built the raccoon castle in the first place?”

  “I’m starting to regret not just getting you a necklace,” I tease back.

  “Sure you are,” she says, then lets my shirt go.

  She slides her hands down my torso, hooks two fingers under the waistband of my jeans, tugs lightly, the backs of her fingers cool against warm skin.

  My whole body shivers.

  “Stay over?” she says.

  I lean in and kiss her. She’s soft and warm and opens her mouth under mine, her hands going under my shirt, cool against my skin. I get goosebumps that have nothing to do with temperature.

  “But I didn’t even bring a toothbrush,” I tell her, and I can feel her smile.

  “Don’t tell me that you didn’t think beyond the varmint palace to the makeup sex,” Delilah says. “What, you didn’t use a flow chart?”

  I hook my fingers through the belt loops on her pants, tug at her slightly, press myself against her, cock already stirring.

  “One, flow charts are for decision making, not planning,” I say. “And two, I just wanted you to say yes. I didn’t even think about what came after.”

  “How could I resist a home befitting Terry, Larry, and Jerry?” she asks, laughing.

  And then, softer: “How could I resist you?”

  “I’m sure there’s a thousand ways.”

  “And yet, none of them interest me.”

  Her hand on the back of my neck, pulling me down, my mouth onto hers. They way it feels when we kiss, like something inside me locking into place.

  This is it. This has always been it.

  “Seth,” she says, voice still soft, holding my forehead against hers. “Promise me something.”

  “Anything.”

  “Can I tell you first?”

  I stroke my thumbs across her sides, bare skin right above her hips. Her body shifts, the slightest movement, but it sends a rush through me anyway.

  “Fine,” I tease.

  “That next time we fight, it’s not over,” she says. “Promise me that next time we fight about something, we’ll go for a walk or do some gardening or bake bread, but then we’ll work it out and stay together.”

  I want to refuse. I want to say no, we’ll never fight again, everything from here on out is happily ever after, but that’s the worst kind of promise because it’s one I can’t keep.

  I can’t swear to perfection or permanent bliss, but I can swear to stay by her side.

  “I promise,” I tell her. “But I need you to promise me something.”

  She swallows.

  “What?”

  “To always believe me when I say you’re everything I need,” I say. “Take me at my word when I say I love you, and only you.”

  She smiles, laughs softly, and I can feel her relax.

  “I promise,” she says.

  We kiss: softly, tenderly, like a couple at the end of a movie. It’s a sweet, chaste kiss, the kind that comes with flower petals and love sonnets, the kind that whispers I love you to a sleeping princess at sunrise.

  It ends. I pull away, dizzy, and Delilah looks up at me, all freckles and brown eyes.

  Her hand drifts along the back of my neck, over my collar, flattens along my shoulder. She runs her thumb quickly over my dirt biking scar, tilts her head slightly, cups my shoulder in her hand.

  I flex, and she laughs, suddenly.

  Then she blushes.

  I do it again, of course, and her cheeks turn even pinker.

  “You’re blushing,” I tell her.

  “No, I’m not,” she says, her eyes still on my arm.

  I press myself against her, grip the edge of the counter, lift. Delilah bites her lips and tries not to laugh and the flush goes down her neck, but she also wraps her hands around my biceps and squeezes.

  “The fuck are you blushing for, Bird?” I tease.

  “Shut up,” she suggests, cocking her head to one side.

  “You having a good time?”

  “What did I just say?”

  “That I should be seen and not heard, apparently.”

  “Not what I said,” she says, still trying not to laugh, hands gripping my shoulders. “I’m a very sophisticated woman and I love you for your beautiful mind and exceptional wit.”

  “But you want to fuck me because you like my muscles.”

  Now she’s grinning, her hips shifting against mine. I wonder how wet she is already, and it’s tantalizing.

  “And your personality, I guess,” she says, and hooks one finger under the top button of my shirt. “That’s not bad.”

  She undoes the button, slides her hand down, undoes the next and the next until my shirt is open, her hands all over me. I kiss her again and she stands on her toes, her hips bucking against mine, the soft rhythm of her going straight to my aching cock.

  I’m tempted in a thousand directions: to spin her around, bend her over, take her over the counter still mostly-clothed. I’m tempted to spread her right here and bury my face between her thighs. I’m tempted to let her get on her knees and watch her lips close around my cock.

  But then she pushes my shirt over my shoulders and bites my lower lip, and before I’ve even gotten my shirt off her hands are tugging at the waistband of my pants, pulling me harder against her.

  I grab her ass, lift her onto the counter, and she lands with a soft “Oh!” of surprise and a grin before I crush her mouth with mine, pinning her against the cabinets.

  She wraps her legs around me, back arching. I lift her sweater and she pulls it off over her head, static electricity crackling and alighting in her hair, her skin bold and bright as ever. There’s a black tank top, too, and she pulls that off like she’s impatient.

  Under the tank top is a black lace bra, her breasts swelling up and out of it, practically smashing the clockwork heart. With every breath she takes her skin presses against the fabric, straining against it.

  Delilah goes to kiss me again but I grab her by a shoulder, hold her against the cabinet because I’m busy staring.

  “I didn’t even tell you,” she says, breathless and amused all at once.

  I run my other hand over a breath, slide my thumb along the seam between skin and lace.

  “Tell me?” I echo, letting my other hand join it.

  Fuck. Fuck. She leans back against the cabinet, toys with one finger under a black bra strap.

  “I went to your house today,” she says. “I took the scrapbook over to see if you’d take me back.”

  My brain is currently lacking for blood, so that takes me a minute to figure out.

  “Wearing this,” I say.

  “In case the scrapbook didn’t work,” he says, softly.

  I put my hand over hers, twist a finger around the same strap.

  “There’s no possible world where I don’t take you back,” I tell her, pulling it over her shoulder. “And God help me, there’s no possible world where wearing this doesn’t also work.”

  I tug the strap under her nipple pops out.

  “Good to know,” she murmurs, and then I lick it, swirl my tongue around it, listen to Delilah’s moan above me as it hardens in my mouth and I can tease it with my teeth. I do the same to the other nipple and she tightens her hand in my hair, her bare heels against my back.

  Finally, she brings her mouth to mine again, pressing forward. Her skin is warm and electric against mine and I grab her hips, pull her against me. She makes a noise into my mouth and I can feel her smile. I pull her even closer, my fingers digging into denim, and then she’s off the counter.

  Unbuttoning her jeans, pushing them over her hips, finally kicking them off.

  The panties match: black and small, the same lace as her bra. When I slide my hand between her legs, she makes a noise and rolls her hips, the fabric already damp. She palms my cock, hard, and I push my fingers under the fabric, pla
y with her clit until her breathing goes erratic and she moans, one foot propped against the lower cabinets.

  When I stop, she sighs in disappointment as I pull her away from the counter.

  “Upstairs,” I tell her. “Now.”

  I add in a hard ass-smack for good measure, and it’s very satisfying.

  “Or what?” she teases. Her fingers find my zipper.

  “Or I have to fuck you on the counter, and I just did that last weekend,” I tease.

  “I liked it last weekend,” she teases back. The zipper is down and she undoes the button and grabs my cock and I stop breathing for a moment.

  “I know,” I manage to get out. “Most of Snowpeak, West Virginia knows.”

  She squeezes me again, and I grab her ass with both hands because I can.

  “I like your outfit and I’d really like to watch you walk up the stairs in front of me, how’s that?” I say. “Soft, flat surfaces are nice to fuck on sometimes. Do you want more reasons to go get on your bed, or will those suffice?”

  She kisses me, lets my erection go, fixes her bra so her nipples are hidden again.

  “I guess those are good enough,” she teases, and walks away.

  Walk isn’t the right word. She knows I’m watching her and Delilah sashays up the stairs, hips swinging from side to side, and I feel like I’m being hypnotized. Before she gets to the second floor I’ve already grabbed one garter, the bright red bow winking between my fingers, my thumb in the crease between her thigh and her ass.

  At the top of the stairs I hook a thumb under the lace panties, pull them off, leave them there. Her bra stays in the doorway to her bedroom and before I toss her onto the bed I pull her to me again, her back to my chest, run my hands over her body as she sighs. Melts.

  I push my fingers between her legs again and they slide through wetness as she leans her head back against my shoulder, eyes closed, lips parted. Hips rolling back against me, the pressure both delicious and exquisite torture.

  Then I spin her, kiss her, and toss her onto the bed, and she laughs in surprise.

  “Don’t tell me you weren’t expecting that,” I say.

  She sits up, forward, grabs the waistband of my undone pants and pulls me toward her.