He exhaled slowly, like he was trying to get himself under control. "Demi, if that's true, then you definitely shouldn't?—"
"I'm ready," I interrupted. "I know we just met. I know this is crazy. But I've spent my whole adult life playing it safe, doing the responsible thing, and where has it gotten me? Alone in Silicon Valley, working eighty-hour weeks, going home to an empty apartment." I reached out, rested my hand on his chest. His heart was racing. "I don't want to be safe anymore. At least not tonight."
For a long moment, he just looked at me. I could practically see the war happening behind his eyes—want versus responsibility, desire versus restraint.
Then his hand covered mine, warm and steady. "You're killing me here."
"Is that a yes or a no?"
"It's a 'you need to be absolutely sure,' because once I start, I'm not going to want to stop."
I took a deep breath. Grabbed my beer. Downed half of it in three long swallows. Set it back down with more force than necessary.
"I'm sure."
Something in his expression changed. The restraint cracked. Gave way to pure heat.
He moved then—not toward me, but past me, reaching around to grab something from the pegboard behind my head. A wrench, maybe. Or a screwdriver. I didn't care.
What I cared about was that he was suddenly right there, his body nearly pressed against mine, his arm extended over my shoulder, his face inches from my neck.
My body moved on instinct. I hooked my legs around his waist and pulled him closer, trapping him against the workbench. Against me.
He froze. The tool—definitely a wrench—clattered back onto the bench.
"Demi." My name came out rough, almost pained.
"Yeah?"
"What are you doing?"
"I think it's called 'following through.'"
He turned his head slowly, and suddenly we were face to face. Eye to eye. Breath to breath.
"Last chance to change your mind," he murmured.
"I don't want to change my mind." My hands found his shoulders, solid and warm under the thin cotton of his shirt. "I want you to kiss me."
His eyes dropped to my mouth. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
For one suspended heartbeat, neither of us moved. The garage was silent except for the hum of the Coca-Cola machine and the distant sound of wind in the pines.
Then his hand came up, cupping my jaw with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with the hunger in his eyes.
"Just so we're clear," he said softly. "I'm not a safe choice. I'm not some tech bro who’ll take you to nice restaurants and talkabout your career goals. I'm a guy who lives alone on a mountain and wants things he probably shouldn't."
"Good," I whispered. "Because I'm done with safe."
His thumb brushed across my lower lip. Once. Twice.
Then he kissed me. And the world caught fire.
It wasn't gentle. Wasn't tentative. It was heat and hunger—years of loneliness on his side, twenty-three years of wondering on mine, colliding in the space between breaths.
His mouth moved over mine with purpose, like he'd been thinking about this as long as I had. His hands slid into my hair, angling my head to deepen the kiss, and I made a sound I didn't recognize—something between a gasp and a moan.
