“That’s not fair,” I snap. “You don’t get to do this.”
Two long strides, and he’s in front of me. Close enough I can feel the anger radiating off him, feel his breath, fast and shallow, crashing into mine. But I’m not scared of him.
No, I’m anything but scared.
“What am I doing, exactly?” he growls. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like I’m losing my goddamn mind over a woman who acts like none of it ever mattered.”
My chest tightens. My pulse thrashes.
“You’re jealous,” I breathe.
“No,” he says, voice rough and low and way too close. “I’m furious.”
Then he grabs me—hands tangling in my hair, anchoring at my waist—and his mouth crashes into mine.
It’s not sweet. It’s not cautious.
It’s wildfire and gasoline.
A kiss that hits like a storm, all heat and fury and years of things unsaid. It tastes like frustration, like longing, like heartbreak on the edge of breaking again. My body folds into his before I can stop it, pulled to him like gravity.
Because right now? I don’t care what comes after.
Will’s mouth moves against mine like he’s trying to undo every second we’ve spent apart. His hands roam urgent and rough, like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he doesn’t touch all of me at once. And, God help me, I let him.
I don’t just let him.
I match him.
My fingers fist in the front of his shirt, dragging him closer, like I can climb inside this moment and hide there. His body pins me to the wall, hard lines pressing into soft curves, and still it’s not close enough.
It’s never been enough with Will.
He groans against my mouth when I kiss him harder, deeper. Like I’m mad at him. Like I want to punish him for making mefeel all of this. For never giving us a real chance. For letting me go.
“You drive me crazy,” he rasps, lips grazing my jaw as his hands slide beneath the hem of my dress. “Wearing this dress twice for men who weren’t me.”
My breath stutters. Heat floods low in my belly. “You could’ve said something.”
His mouth hovers just over mine, his voice a whisper of regret and need. “I’m sayin’ something now.”
Then he kisses me again and this time, there’s no hesitation. No holding back. Just heat and history and two people starving for something they’ve tried to deny for too damn long.
His hands are under my skirt now, rough palms gliding up the backs of my thighs, sending sparks shooting up my spine. When he reaches the lace of my panties, his fingers pause, teasing just enough to make me gasp.
I moan into his mouth as he presses me harder against the wall, his hips anchoring me in place. His mouth moves to my neck, tongue and teeth grazing skin, like he’s trying to learn every inch of me all at once.
“You think I didn’t want you?” he growls against my throat. “Every goddamn night.”
His fingers skim higher, over the damp fabric at my center, and I buck into his hand, helpless.
“I dreamed about this,” he says, lips brushing my ear. “You. Begging me to finish what I never should’ve stopped.”
I breathe, desperate, already undone. “Will?—”
Rrring. Rrring.
The phone cuts through us like a gunshot.
