“You’re not running away from me this time, Nenoka.”
Her protest at the nickname flares in her eyes, but I steal her words away with my lips. She is my Nenoka. Always was.
And this kiss is proof.
As I cover her lips with mine and we become one. She moans my name and I lose it.
Holy fuck, Nenoka.
I say it in my head because my mouth is too busy worshipping hers. Exploring every inch of her soft mouth, marking my territory on every taste bud, claiming those plush lips with my teeth until I feel her melt against me.
Yes.
This confirmseverything.
She’s mine and she’s just how I remember her.
The scent of her, the feel of her, the way she breathes, the gentle hammering of her pulse against my fingers. A torrential flood of emotion, heat and need hits me all at once.
I’ve obsessed about this moment for years, but I wasn’t prepared for the way she would feel in my arms again. I’d forgotten those tiny details. I’d forgotten how she tasted.
How she moaned whenever my teeth grazed her lips. How the harder I kiss her the more she moves against me, until I can feel every inch of her soft curves. We’re both dressed for winter with inches of fabric between us, but this kiss brings back all of her.
Just one jerk of my hips against her and I fucking lose it, spilling inside my pants.
She doesn’t know it, but she’s the only woman I’ve touched since that day when she walked into my office. I don’t need anyone else. This taste of her proves it.
Nina pulls back with a gasp just as I slide my hand down to her waist.
I’m so not done.
But she raises her hand to her mouth in shock and shakes her head as I move to capture her again.
Without a word, she ducks under my arms and runs inside the lobby of her apartment building.
11
NINA
Ithought Art would be more curious to meet his daughter for the first time. Instead, he’s so cool and detached, he could be meeting a random child.
“So this is your daughter,” Art murmurs, arriving beside me at the fence around the play area. His eyes dart between us, and he tilts his head. “She looks like you.”
I roll my eyes.
People say that, but it’s not true. Ava has my freckles, but she looks just like Art, with her golden hair and her blue eyes. And she even has an amber patch in her right eye, which the doctors described as partial heterochromia.
She’s Art, all the way through.
“That’s her,” I confirm with a shrug.
I’m trying to give Art the silent treatment. It feels like the rightdecision. But he keeps showing up, again and again, even if it’s just to sit with me in the break room.
Even though he’s not betraying a shred of emotion, he leans against the bars of the fence with me to watch her play.
I try to ignore how close he is. His broad shoulders brush against mine. The sharp, woodsy scent of his cologne fills my nostrils.
It feels like he’s tormenting me on purpose, popping up in my face right when I think I’ve gotten him out of my head.
