She whimpers.
I groan — low, broken, starving.
I kiss her like I’m punishing her for existing. Like I’m punishing myself for ever letting her go. Our teeth clash, tongues collide, mouths bruise. It’s not sweet. It’s not gentle.
It’s war.
And I lose.
She fists my shirt, nails scraping across my chest like she wants to peel me open and climb inside. She kisses me like she’s trying to breathe me back to life — and for one sick, holy second, she does.
I drag her into my lap, her thighs straddling mine, and I feel how badly she wants this — how badly we both do.
But it’s the way she kisses back.
Her surrender.
Her sob.
Her ache.
That’s what destroys me.
Not her lips.
Not her body.
Her fucking heart.
Still cracked. Still bleeding.
Still beating for me.
And I don’t deserve a single piece of it.
But I take it anyway.
When I pull back, her lips are swollen, her eyes glazed and glassy like she can’t decide whether this is a dream or another heartbreak wearing my face.
“Dax…” she whispers.
I brush my thumb over her lower lip — hot, swollen, mine — and I let myself really look at her.
Not like a man trying to forget.
Like a man remembering everything.
“Say it again,” I murmur.
She blinks. “Say what?”
“My name. Like that. Like it still belongs to you.”
She swallows, lips parting like the word hurts — but she gives it to me anyway.
“Dax.”
Fuck.
