"The kind where you can't stop thinking about someone even when it's completely impractical and possibly career-ending for both of you."
"How's that working out?"
"Still determining." He kissed her again, backing her toward the bed. "Ask me later."
They fell onto the mattress together, a tangle of limbs and laughter when he nearly kicked her in the shin. He braced himself above her, looking down with an expression that made her chest tight.
"Hi," she said.
"Hi."
Then he kissed her neck, her collarbone, the hollow of her throat, and she stopped thinking in words at all.
His belt was complicated. She struggled with it until he huffed a laugh and helped her, fingers working the buckle with the same precision he brought to everything. The belt hit the floor. His pants followed.
He reached behind her, found the clasp of her bra. Paused, eyes meeting hers in silent question. She nodded, and he unhooked it slowly, sliding the straps down her arms like he was unwrapping something precious. When he kissed the curve of her shoulder where the strap had been, she shivered.
"Cold?" he asked against her skin.
"No."
His hands traced down her sides, thumbs hooking under the elastic of her underwear. "Lift up for me."
She did, and he pulled them down her legs and off, his gaze never leaving hers. Then he just looked at her—really looked—and the reverence in his expression made her feel beautiful in a way she'd never experienced.
"Liam—"
"I know." His voice was rough. "Me too."
She reached for his boxer briefs, but he stood, stepped back from the bed. Her breath caught as he shucked them off himself, and then he was back—covering her, skin to skin, eyes never leaving her face.
Skin against skin finally, and Libby wrapped herself around him.
"I want—" she started, then lost the words when his mouth found her breast.
"Tell me," he said against her skin. "Tell me what you want."
"You. This. All of it."
He reached for the nightstand, came back with a condom. She took it from him, opened it, and watched his face as she rolled it on—the way his jaw clenched, the control visibly fraying.
"Libby." Her name rough in his throat.
"I know."
He paused, searching her face one last time. "Libby?"
She arched into him, her hands pulling him closer, erasing any space between them. "No doubts. Not anymore."
He kissed her and pushed inside slowly, carefully, giving her time to adjust. She gasped against his mouth, hands digging into his shoulders.
"Okay?" he asked again, holding still despite the tension in every muscle.
"Move," she managed. "Please move."
He did.
It started desperate—all the pent-up wanting from two months of dancing around each other, of almost-kisses and careful distance. Fast and urgent and absolutely necessary. But somewhere in the middle, something shifted. He slowed down, pulled back to look at her, his hand coming up to cup her face with unexpected tenderness.
