For years, I’d rehearsed all the things I’d say if he ever apologized. All the ways I’d brush it off, all the lines I’d recite about being “over it”. I imagined I’d be indifferent, and show him how little he meant to me. But now, standing this close to him, hearing those words spoken in the familiar, soothing voice I used to fall asleep to on the phone… I couldn’t pretend that I didn’t feel something. I wanted to tell him that I hated him for what he did, but deep down, I knew I’d never stopped loving him.
He stopped closer still, eyes beseeching. “Say something.Anything.” When I didn’t—because I couldn’t—he sighed and repeated, “I’m sorry.”
My resolve, which had been weakening by the second, crumbled. I stepped forward, covering the little space between us, laced my fingers around his neck, and pulled him in. He didn’t hesitate.
His mouth met mine instantly. Our movements were slow at first, hesitant, as if we were testing the waters. It didn’t take long for the heat to spread, though, because after all these years, the fire never went out. My fingers tightened around him, and his hands slid around my waist, fitting me to him like we’d never spent a day apart.
The kiss didn’t fix anything between us. I mean, everything still hurt like hell. All those stifling emotions still weighed on me. But it was… real. It felt good, and for now, that was what I needed. He kissed me with more intensity and certainty. When things started to feel too familiar, panic rose in my chest. I pulled away, and he let me go instantly.
We were breathless and staring at each other.
He must have seen the alarm in my eyes because he whispered, “I’m sorry.”
“No, I kissed you.” I swallowed hard. “That didn’t mean anything…” I snorted inwardly. I didn’t even believe that.
“Then why did it feel like everything?”
Goodness. I needed to put some space between us. Pronto. I stepped back, fumbling for the door handle behind me. I slipped inside, shutting the door with a quiet click. I leaned against the door as if it could stop me from falling apart, then I gasped.
Did I just shut the door in Lincoln’s face? I didn’t mean to. After that kiss, my wits were scattered. He must have thought I was a bitch.
Yanking the door open to call him back, I froze.
He hadn’t walked away. He still stood there, staring at the door as if willing me to open it.
Our eyes locked, and that was it.
I wasn’t sure who moved first. All I knew was that we were in each other’s arms, locked in a frantic kiss. There was desperation in the way we devoured each other. He shuffled us inside and kicked the door shut. My purse and key card slipped from my fingers as I wound my arms around his shoulders. His hands gripped my waist, pulling me flush against him. I’d always loved the contrast of our bodies coming together—solid muscles against softer curves. Our kiss deepened as I stumbled back toward the bed, dragging him with me. Our mouths clashed as if we were trying to make up for every year lost between us.
My palms landed on his chest to caress the hard plane before dipping to slide under his shirt. He felt so good, like warm velvet over steel. A low groan rumbled in his chest. He broke our kiss to yank my top off. I thought I heard a ripping sound, but I didn’t even care if the thing was shredded.
I fumbled with his belt before dragging it off and then started on the button and zipper of his jeans. When he kicked his pantsand underwear off, he got me out of mine and captured my mouth again.
My legs collided with the mattress, and we tumbled onto it, pawing at each other like starving animals. He braced a forearm beside my head to keep from crushing me, while the other hand mapped my ribs, breasts, waist, and the curve of my hip as if he needed to relearn my body.
Feeling absolutely ravenous, I pushed at his chest. We were still so in tune that I didn’t have to tell him what I wanted. He rolled us over in one smooth motion until I was straddling him. I needed to be in control or at least feel like I was—because I was on the verge of freaking out, realizing how much I still wanted him. This was probably a bad idea, but I couldn’t stop.
I kissed him deeply and then slid down his body. He still held my waist steadily and possessively, but he allowed me to move at my own pace. I lifted my hips and sank onto his waiting length. The contact had the air rushing out of my lungs.
Lincoln’s hold on me tightened as he released a guttural groan. I watched him fight his need to move, to give me what I wanted—the comfort of controlling this one thing. My movements were unhurried at first as I took the time to adjust to the way he filled me—like no one else could. Then, I greedily chased after the feeling of bliss I always experience with him.
“Ava…” he moaned, sliding his palms up to cup my breasts. “I missed this… you…”
I held on to his wrist to steady myself and because I needed to touch himanywhere. As I rode him, each roll of my hips pulled a moan from him. I reveled in the way he took pleasure from my body, just as I took from him. I got closer to that delicious ecstasy. The tension inside me built until it snapped and rippled through me.
His name spilled from my lips in a scream that might have been heard by my neighbours. I was conscious enoughto glimpse him watching me with that expression of awe he’d always wear when we were younger. The one that made me feel like the only girl in the world who meant something to him. My vision blurred, and I fell forward, unable to hold myself up as shockwaves moved through me. He took control then, rolling us over, to plunge deeper and find his own release.
He came with my name on his lips. It made me feel as if I’d never stopped being his—though maybe the orgasm had scrambled my brain and made me think crazy. He rested his forehead on mine as we caught our breaths. He then gave me a sweet, quick kiss on the lips, another to my forehead, before rolling off me. That almost made me weep.Whywould he still do that twelve years later?
I swallowed my panic once again.
Do not fall back into his trap.
I was older and nowhere near as naïve as I once was. Tender gestures did not mean love. I learned that the hard way once.
We were quiet as we lay sweaty and spent, both of us staring at the ceiling.
Finally, Lincoln asked, “Are you okay?”
