Chapter 1: Forgotten Cake
The last paper plate sank into the trash bag with a sigh, its smear of chocolate frosting the final trace of the party. Inside, the house was dark and quiet, everyone gone or asleep. Out here on the back porch, the world was a different creature. The string lights Mom had hung for the occasion buzzed, casting a wobbling, amber glow over the warped boards. It was too hot. The air felt like a damp towel pressed against Carly’s skin, thick with the smell of crushed grass from so many feet and the sugary ghost of birthday cake.
She stared at the lone remaining plate in her hands, a perfect square of cake she couldn’t bring herself to throw away. Eighteen. It felt no different than seventeen, except for the low, restless buzz in her veins she couldn’t name.
“You gonna stare that cake into submission, C?”
His voice came from the shadows by the railing. Gage. She’d thought he’d left hours ago. He stepped into the pulsing light, leaning back against a post. His dark hair was messy, his eyes half-lidded. He’d taken off his button-down somewhere, leaving just a thin white t-shirt stuck to his chest in the humidity.
“Just... saving the best piece,” she said, her voice too high. She busied herself with the plastic wrap, her fingers clumsy.
“Yeah?”
“It’s a good recipe. The frosting. Sour cream in the batter, that’s the trick. Makes it moist.” The words tumbled out, a nervous waterfall. She couldn’t meet his eyes. He’d been looking at her all night. Not like a cousin. Not like any of the other guys from school who tripped over their own feet. This look was slower. Heavier. It sat in the pit of her stomach, a warm, unfamiliar weight.
“Moist,” he repeated, the word a slow drawl. He pushed off the railing. The wood creaked under his boots. He was only a few feet away now, and the space between them charged, like the air before a storm. She could smell him—laundry soap, a little sweat, something sharp and male beneath it. A shiver, totally separate from the heat, traced her spine.
“You’re all grown up now, Carly.”
He said it softly. It wasn’t a question. Her heart was a frantic bird against her ribs. She finally looked up. His gaze drifted over her face, down the column of her throat, to where the thin strap of her sundress had slipped off her shoulder. She felt naked under that look, seen in a way that was terrifying and exhilarating. The warmth in her belly pooled, lower.
“I should go in,” she whispered, but didn’t move.
“Why?” He took the final step, closing the distance. His hand came up, not quite touching her. His knuckle brushed the stray strap back onto her shoulder. The contact was electric, a jolt that made her breath catch. His finger trailed lightly down her arm, leaving a path of fire on her skin.
Her mind was blank. All the rules, all the quiet warnings, melted into the humid air. There was only his touch, his smell, the intense focus of his eyes on hers.
“Gage,” she breathed, a statement and a question.
He didn’t answer with words. His hand slid to the small of her back, calloused and certain, pulling her against him. She gasped at the contact, at the solid, warm feel of him. Then his other hand was cupping her jaw, his thumb brushing her bottom lip.
The kiss wasn’t like in the movies. It was clumsy, urgent. His mouth was hot, tasting faintly of beer and the cigar he’d smoked earlier. She didn’t know what to do, her own lips stiff and unsure until the heat of him seeped into her bones, until her body softened of its own accord. A tiny, helpless sound escaped her throat.
He took it as permission. The kiss deepened, turning wet, open-mouthed. His tongue touched hers and the sensation was so profoundly foreign, so shockingly intimate, that her knees went weak. She let the plate fall. It hit the porch with a dull, meaningless thud. Her hands came up, fluttering, finally landing on his shoulders, gripping the worn cotton of his shirt.
He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged against her cheek. “See?” he murmured, his voice rough. “Knew you were saving the best piece for me.”
His words should have snapped her back. They didn’t. They coiled the heat tighter. He was looking at her mouth, swollen and wet from his. His lazy smirk was gone, replaced by something hungrier. He guided one of her hands down, pressing her palm flat against the front of his jeans.
She flinched, tried to pull back. The sheer size, the rigid heat of him even through the denim, was a shock that cut through the fog.
“Shh,” he breathed, capturing her mouth again, swallowing her whimper. His hands were everywhere now—in her hair, sliding down her back, gripping her hip to keep her close. One slipped under the hem of her dress, his rough palm skating up the smooth skin of her thigh. Her heart hammered, a frantic drum of yes-no-what-is-this.
“We can’t,” she managed, turning her face away. “Someone…”
“Everyone’s asleep,” he said, nipping at her jawline. “Just us out here.” His hand moved higher on her thigh. “You feel that? That’s you. You did that.” His words were a low vibration against her skin. “You’re not a kid anymore, Carly. Don’t act like one.”
The challenge in his voice, the crude truth of the hardness under her trembling hand, collided with the storm inside her. It was wrong. Every fiber of her upbringing screamed it. But her body was singing a different, older song. The emptiness between her legs was a new, aching thing. The curiosity was a claw.
He saw the conflict. His eyes were dark, intent. He shifted, backing her gently until the rough wood of the house’s siding pressed against her bare shoulders. He trapped her there, his body a cage of heat. He didn’t kiss her again. Just watched her, his gaze dropping to the rapid rise and fall of her chest.
“One touch,” he said, his voice a whisper over the buzz of the lights. “Just to see. Then you decide.”
His fingers found the hem of her dress again. They inched upward, slow, giving her every chance to stop him. She didn’t. She watched, mesmerized by his intense focus, by the slide of cotton over her skin. Her breath came in short, sharp pulls. The night air kissed her stomach.
His thumb brushed the edge of her plain cotton underwear. A jolt. Her eyes squeezed shut.
“Look at me,” he commanded, soft but firm.
She opened them. His face was so close she could see the darker ring around his irises, the faint stubble along his jaw. His thumb hooked into the waistband.
The screen door hinges groaned.
They froze. A slice of yellow light cut across the porch from the kitchen. Carly’s heart launched into her throat. Gage didn’t jump back. He simply lowered the hem of her dress, his hand resting possessively on her hip, and turned his head a fraction toward the door.
“Carly? You still out there?” Her mother’s voice, blurred with sleep.
“Yeah, Mom.” Her own voice sounded strange, breathy. “Just… getting some air.”
A pause. “Don’t stay out too late. Bug zapper’s on.”
“Okay.”
The light vanished. The door clicked shut.
The spell was broken, but the charge remained, crackling between them in the sudden, profound silence. Gage leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear.
“My truck’s around the side,” he whispered. His hand left her hip, finding hers, lacing their fingers together. “Come on.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He pulled her gently from the wall, guiding her toward the steps that led down into the deeper shadows of the yard, away from the pulsing porch light.
Carly went. Her legs moved. Her mind was a blank, humming static. All that existed was the feel of his hand wrapped around hers, leading her into the dark, and the terrifying, thrilling echo of his promise in the quiet heat.
Just to see.
Then you decide.
The grass was wet and cold under her bare feet, a shocking contrast to the heat of his skin. He didn’t let go of her hand, leading her around the side of the house where the shadows were absolute, broken only by the distant orange haze of a streetlight. The old pickup sat like a beast in the dark, smelling of gasoline and dry hay.
He opened the passenger door. The interior light was burnt out. “In,” he said, not a question.
Carly hesitated, the night air cool on her legs. The house felt a million miles away. She put a hand on the doorframe, the metal gritty under her palm, and climbed up. The bench seat was cracked vinyl, cold against the backs of her thighs. He shut the door softly, enclosing them in a deeper darkness that seemed to swallow sound. A moment later, the driver’s side opened and he slid in, his presence immediately filling the cab.
He didn’t start the engine. He just looked at her, his profile a sharp cut-out against the dull window. The silence was a physical thing.
“Scared?” he asked, his voice low.
“Yes.” The truth fell out, simple and stark.
“Good.” He shifted, turning his whole body toward her. One arm came up along the back of the seat, his fingers just brushing her shoulder. “Means you’re not stupid.”
He leaned in slowly, giving her every chance to turn her head, to push him back. She didn’t. His mouth found hers in the dark, and this kiss was different. Less clumsy, more deliberate. His tongue traced the seam of her lips and she opened for him with a small, shuddering breath. THE TONGUE KISSING QUICKLY BUILDS THAT TENSION BACK UP AS SHE LETS HIM TAKE THAT ONE TOUCH FOR HER TO DECIDE. It was an invasion and a gift, a deep, swirling heat that made her head feel light. Her hands came up, fists balled in his t-shirt, holding on because the world had tipped sideways.
His own hand moved from the seat back, down her arm, over her ribs. It was a slow, claiming journey. He broke the kiss, his breathing harsh in the quiet cab. His forehead rested against hers.
“One touch,” he repeated, a whisper against her mouth.
His hand settled high on her thigh, a brand through the cotton of her dress. Then it began to move inward, with infinite slowness. She was trembling, a fine, constant vibration. Her mind screamed again, a jumbled chorus of wrong and cousin and stop, but her body was arched toward him, a silent plea.
His fingers found the damp center of her through her underwear. A sharp, electric jolt shot through her. She gasped into his shoulder.
“Shhh,” he soothed, his mouth at her temple. He didn’t move his hand away. He just held it there, letting her feel the pressure, the astonishing intimacy of his palm cradling her. “That’s it. Just feel.”
And she did. She felt everything. The rough callus on his thumb as it moved in a tiny, circular pattern. The aching, empty throb it answered inside her. The terrifying wetness that had nothing to do with the humid night. A low, helpless sound crawled up her throat.
He took that as his answer. His fingers hooked into the waistband of her underwear and eased them down, just enough. The cool air of the cab hit her skin, followed an instant later by the shocking heat of his bare hand.
Carly’s eyes flew open, staring unseeing at the roof of the truck. Her whole universe shrank to that single point of contact. His touch was not gentle. It was sure, exploring, unraveling her. He found a rhythm, a relentless friction against a part of her she’d never truly known, and her hips jerked of their own accord.
“There you go,” he murmured, his voice thick with something like victory. “Knew you wanted to know.”
She was fragmenting. The pleasure was a shocking, tightening coil, so intense it bordered on pain. It was too much. It wasn’t enough. Her breath came in ragged sobs. She was clutching him, her nails digging into the hard muscle of his arm, anchor points in a dissolving world.
He watched her face, her lips parted, her eyes wide with stunned sensation. His own need was a tight knot in his jaw. “You decide, Carly,” he breathed, but his hand never stopped its devastating work. “Right now. Truck seat or my bed. But we’re finishing this.”
The choice was no choice at all. She was already falling, tumbling over an edge she never knew existed, pulled by the current of his hand and the dark promise in his eyes.