Without thinking, driven by an instinct deeper than words, I shift closer. I slide my hand from his, up his arm, feeling thesolid muscle beneath the damp sleeve of his shirt, tense as coiled wire.
“Denton,” I whisper.
He doesn’t lift his head. But he leans into my touch, just a fraction. The trembling in his shoulders intensifies.
A low, ragged sob tears from his throat. It’s the most devastating thing I’ve ever heard. His body curls inward slightly, his forehead coming to rest against my shoulder.
I put my arms around him instinctively, pulling him closer. His face presses into the curve of my neck, his breath hot and damp against my skin. His arms wrap around my waist, clutching me with a desperate strength, like I’m the only solid thing in a world dissolving around him.
My hands move slowly over his broad back, tracing the powerful muscles beneath the wet fabric, trying to soothe the tremors, to absorb some of the pain radiating from him.
My own tears slip free, tracing paths through the grime on my cheeks, falling into his dark hair. I cry for the woman he lost, for the little girl who lost her mother, for the years of silent grief he’s carried. And I cry for the sheer, breathtaking courage it took for him to confide in me.
Eventually, the tremors subside. The desperate clutch of his arms around my waist loosens, though he doesn’t pull away. His breathing evens out, deep and slow, his forehead still resting heavily on my shoulder.
He shifts slightly, lifting his head just enough to look at me. His eyes are red-rimmed, shadowed, his lashes spiky with moisture. The raw vulnerability in his eyes steals my breath.
One of his hands lifts from my waist, his fingers trembling slightly as they brush a stray tear from my cheek. The rough pad of his thumb traces the damp path it left, his gaze locked on mine.
His thumb stills on my cheekbone. His gaze drops to my lips, then flicks back up, holding mine.
Slowly, giving me every chance to pull back, he leans in.
This kiss isn’t like the one under the mistletoe. This is different. Deeper. A slow, deliberate exploration. A soft sigh escapes me, lost against his mouth. I open for him, inviting him in.
He responds with a low groan that comes from deep in his chest, a sound of surrender and need.
His hand cups the side of my face, his thumb stroking my cheekbone, his fingers tangling gently in my hair. His other arm tightens around my waist, pulling me flush against him. The heat of his body, even through our damp clothes, is intoxicating.
I melt into him. I pull him closer, deepening the kiss, meeting his tenderness with my own.
He breaks the kiss slowly, reluctantly, and our breath mingles, warm in the cool air.
“Holly,” he murmurs. His thumb traces my lower lip, sending shivers cascading down my spine.
“Denton,” I whisper back, my voice husky.
He kisses me again. This time, there’s no hesitation. No careful exploration. It’s a claiming. Deep and hungry.
Heat pools low in my belly, spreading outwards, warming me from the inside out despite the chill of my damp clothes. My fingers tighten in his hair, pulling him closer, needing more. He moans again, the sound vibrating against my lips, and his hands move from my face and waist, sliding down my back, pulling me impossibly closer, until there’s not an inch of space between us.
The sensation of his body against mine is overwhelming—his solid chest, his thighs pressing against mine, the strength in his arms. But the cold dampness of my clothes and the hard floor beneath us are impossible to ignore. My back aches from hoursof cleanup, and despite the heat building between us, I'm still shivering.
I pull back slightly, just enough to look into his eyes. They're dark with desire, but also questioning, worried he's pushed too far.
"My apartment's upstairs," I whisper, my voice unsteady. "It's dry. And warm."
His expression shifts, surprise giving way to something more intense. For a terrifying moment, I think he's going to pull away, retreat behind those walls again.
Instead, he brushes a strand of wet hair from my face. "Are you sure?"
The tenderness in his voice nearly undoes me. "Very sure."
He stands first, pulling me to my feet. My legs feel wobbly, partly from exhaustion, partly from the way he's looking at me. He doesn't let go of my hand as I lead him to the narrow staircase that connects to my apartment above.
I'm acutely aware of his presence behind me as we climb the stairs – the sound of his breathing, the slight creak of the stairs beneath his weight.
As we enter my apartment, I’m embarrassed by the mess. There are dishes in the sink and half-folded laundry on the couch.
