Liam’s hand slides up the back of my neck, threading into my hair, and the second he fists it gently, angling my head just the way he wants, I’m gone. The kiss deepens, slow and devastating, his mouth moving over mine with a hunger that steals the breath from my lungs.
It’s no longer careful.
It’s real.
I gasp against his mouth again, and he takes it as an invitation, his tongue sweeping against mine, demanding, coaxing, owning.
A low, guttural sound rumbles from his chest. The kind of sound a man makes when he’s finally touching what he thought he couldn’t have. My hands slide up his chest, feeling the hard planes of muscle under his shirt, clutching at him like I could somehow anchor myself to the moment and never let it end.
He crowds me back against the seat of the UTV, his body pressing flush against mine, every hard line of him saying exactly what his mouth hasn’t yet.
Mine.
His free hand curves around my waist, hauling me closer, until I’m practically climbing into his lap.
And God help me, I let him.
Because there’s no pretending anymore. No fake dates. No rehearsed touches. Just this. Wild and reckless and right.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard, hearts hammering against each other’s ribs. Liam’s thumb brushes over my bottom lip, swollen and tingling from the force of him.
His voice is a rough, broken whisper when he says, “I’m not pretending anymore, Olive.”
And deep down, where all my fear used to live, neither am I.
We sit there for a long moment, breathing each other in.
Neither of us moves.
Neither of us speaks.
The mist curls around the UTV, the calves wobble on uncertain legs in the distance, the world spins on but right here, in this tiny pocket of it, everything feels like it’s been cracked open and rewritten.
My forehead rests against his, my eyes closed, the steady thud of his heartbeat against my palm grounding me. His thumb strokes lazily along my waist, small circles that send shivers radiating outward. He’s touching me like he’s memorizing the feel of me. And God, I’m doing the same.
Finally, Liam exhales a shaky breath, pulling back just enough to look at me.
His blue eyes are dark.
“We should…” His voice breaks, and he clears it, a half-smile tugging at his mouth. “We should probably head back inside.”
But he doesn’t move. Neither do I. We stay locked there, caught in the gravitational pull of everything unsaid, everything waiting.
Finally, his hand finds mine again, lacing our fingers together so naturally it feels like breathing, and he brings it to his mouth, brushing a kiss across my knuckles.
A small, shattering touch.
“Come on, honey,” he says softly, voice still rough. “Let’s go home.”
Home.
And somehow, impossibly, I realize that's exactly what he means. Wordlessly, I nod, scooting off his lap and into my seat.
Neither of us speaks on the short drive back to the house.
We don't need to.
Every glance, every brush of skin, every breath between us says the same thing.
