Instead, I took a step closer, drawn by the warmth in his gorgeous brown eyes and the familiar comfort I always felt around him. "Trace, I?—"
"I've missed you," he said, his hand coming up to cup my cheek. "God, Sabrina, I've missed you so much."
The confession broke something open in my chest. "I've missed you too. More than I wanted to. It doesn’t make sense.”
"When has anything between us ever made sense?” he asked, his thumb tracing along my cheekbone.
I laughed, but it came out watery. "Never. We've always been a mess."
"Maybe that's not such a bad thing."
He was so close I could feel the warmth radiating from his skin, could smell the familiar scent of sawdust and soap that always clung to him. The same scent that had comforted me through ups and downs and teenage heartbreaks and every crisis in between.
"Sabrina.” My name sounded like a question on his lips.
When he started to lean in, I met him halfway. His lips met mine, soft and tentative at first, like he was asking permission. I gave it by pressing closer, my hands fisting in the soft cotton of his shirt.
The kiss deepened, too many years of want and need pouring out between us. It was familiar and new all at the same time. He was still Trace, the man who'd always made my pulse race, but he was different too. Older, steadier, more sure of what he wanted. When we finally pulled apart, both of us breathing hard, he rested his forehead against mine.
"Stay," he whispered.
I should have told him then. Should have pulled back and explained everything before this went any further. But the word that came out of my mouth was, "Okay."
He led me down the hall to his bedroom, our fingers intertwined, and I let him. Because for just a little while, I wanted to pretend that we were just Trace and Sabrina again, without the weight of secrets between us. I wanted to pretend that this second chance was real and uncomplicated and mine to take.
The bedroom was exactly as I remembered: simple furniture, soft quilts, and windows that looked out onto the mountains. He'd hung new curtains, I noticed. Navy blue instead of the old plaid ones. They matched the throw pillows I'd bought him a few Christmases ago, the ones I'd wondered if he'd thrown away.
"Second thoughts?" he asked softly, noticing my hesitation.
"No." I turned to face him, my decision solid. Whatever happened tomorrow, whatever consequences came from my secrets, I wanted this moment. I wanted him. "No second thoughts."
He stepped closer, his hand coming to rest on my waist. "You're shaking,” he murmured.
"I know." My voice came out breathy. "It's been a long time."
"A long time for a lot of things," he agreed, his fingers tracing light circles on my hip.
His touch sent shivers straight through me. This was Trace—my best friend, the man I’d loved for decades, the one who'd seen me through every heartbreak except the one he'd caused without knowing.
His mouth found mine again, more demanding this time. The kiss wasn't gentle. It was pure hunger and need. Like three years of what-ifs and almosts pouring out between us. His hands slid under my sweater, calloused palms warm against my skin.
I gasped as his fingers found the clasp of my bra. "Trace?—"
"Tell me to stop," he whispered against my lips. "Tell me and I will."
But I didn't want to stop. Not now, maybe not ever. I wanted this moment, this connection, even if it wouldn’t last. As his hands moved lower, unbuttoning my jeans, a wave of guilt crashed over me. I should tell him. Right now, before it went any further. Before I lost myself completely.
Then his mouth was on mine again, and my ability to think gave way to sensations I’d only ever dreamed about. He slid my jeans down my hips and sank down on his knees in front of me. The intimacy of the gesture, the way he looked up at me with those dark eyes… it was almost my undoing.
"Damn, Sabrina," he breathed. "You're so fucking beautiful."
His words sent a fresh wave of guilt through me. If he only knew. If he only understood what I'd done. I put my hands on his shoulders, intent on stopping him, of pulling him back to his feet to confess everything. Then he tugged down my panties and eased me back onto the bed. His tongue lapped at my core, hot and demanding, and all thoughts of confession dissolved into white-hot pleasure. His hands gripped my hips, holding me steady as his tongue worked magic that made my knees weak. I tangled my fingers in his hair, gasping as pleasure spiraled through me.
When I could finally think again, he stood and tugged off his sweats. I reached for him, needing to feel his skin against mine, needing to erase the years of distance between us.
He groaned as my hands explored his chest, his stomach, then lower. "You're killing me," he murmured against my neck.
"Good," I whispered, because right then, in that moment, it felt like the truth. If this was how we ended, at least we'd have this memory.
