"I had a speech prepared. Rational arguments about what we could build together. Financial assurances about your career. But the truth is simpler and more terrifying than any of that."
I brushed a tear from her cheek with my thumb. "I love you. And the thought of you three thousand miles away is unendurable."
"I'm scared," she whispered, the first completely unguarded admission I'd heard from her.
"Not of you. Of this. Of how completely it's consumed me."
"And I'm not?" The question emerged with a ragged edge.
"You think it's easy for me—a man who's built his life around control—to admit that I need someone this way? That I'm willing to risk everything for whatever this is becoming?"
I pressed my forehead against hers, closing my eyes. "I have never been more terrified in my life. But the alternative—letting you go without fighting—that's not fear. That's surrender. And I don't surrender."
Her hand came up to cup my cheek, the touch so gentle it cracked something open inside my chest.
"I tried to stop loving you," she confessed. "I spent all day trying to convince myself I could walk away."
"And?"
"And all I managed to do was make myself miserable." A small laugh escaped her. "I kept thinking about your hands. Your voice. The way you look at me like you can see straight through every defense I've ever built."
Relief flooded through me, powerful enough to make me dizzy. "Then don't go. Stay. Fight for this with me."
"I love you, too," she whispered, the admission clearly costing her.
"God help me, I do."
Those words—coming from her, offered despite every reason to withhold them—hit with physical force.
I kissed her then, not with controlled passion but with naked desperation. A man drowning and finding air.
She responded with equal intensity, fingers digging into my shoulders, mouth opening beneath mine with a sound that sent heat flooding through me. This wasn't careful exploration—this was need in its rawest form.
I pulled her across the console and into my lap, heedless of the confined space, focused only on getting her closer.
Her knees settled on either side of my thighs, bringing her core directly against my hardness, drawing gasps from us both.
"I need you," I growled against her neck, hands sliding beneath her sweater to find warm skin.
"Now. Here."
"Yes," she breathed, no hesitation, no protest about our surroundings.
My hands found the button of her jeans, worked it free with practiced efficiency. She lifted herself, helping me push the fabric down her hips along with the scrap of lace beneath. The cool air meeting heated skin made her gasp, made her press closer against me.
"Look at me," I demanded, echoing words from our first night together. "I need to see you."
Her eyes met mine—vulnerable, wanting, completely open.
No masks, no defenses. Just Savannah, raw and real and mine.
I worked my belt free, freed myself from the confines of my pants, the relief of liberation making me groan. She positioned herself above me, hands braced on my shoulders, eyes never leaving mine.
"You're mine," I said, gripping her hips as she slowly lowered herself onto me.
"Say it."
"Yours," she gasped as I filled her completely, her body adjusting to the intrusion with exquisite tightness. "Always yours."
