His eyes soften. “You’re not alone anymore.”
“But I wasn’t supposed to drag you into this,” I say. “I wasn’t supposed to feel?—”
I stop myself.
Too late.
His jaw works. “Feel what?”
I look at him, really look at him—his fierce expression, his beautiful eyes, the way he’s watching me like I’m something worth fighting for. And the truth comes out.
“Everything,” I whisper. “I feel everything I shouldn’t.”
His breath catches.
He reaches for me slowly, giving me every chance to pull away.
I don’t.
His fingers skim my cheek. My neck. The line of my jaw.
And then his mouth is on mine.
Not hungry.
Not rushed.
Just…inevitable.
His kiss is gentle at first—soft, unbearably tender—like he’s afraid I’ll break. I’m already broken. But not in the way he fears.
I kiss him back, hands sliding up his chest. His breath shudders. He deepens the kiss, lips moving with a slow intensity that makes my knees go weak even though I’m sitting.
He pulls back just enough to whisper against my lips: “Tell me if you want me to stop.”
I shake my head. “I don’t.”
He exhales like he’s been holding that breath for years.
Then he kisses me again—deep, molten, consuming—and I feel heat bloom under my skin, warmth spreading everywhere his hands trace.
He lifts me gently into his lap, my legs straddling his waist. The shift steals my breath. His hands slide to my hips, holding me like I’m something fragile. Precious.
His forehead drops to mine.
“This isn’t pretend for me,” he murmurs. “Not anymore.”
“It’s not pretend for me either,” I breathe.
He closes his eyes like that confession undoes something inside him.
Then he lays me back against the pillows, bracing himself over me.
His shirt—his shirt—falls open at my shoulder as he kisses down my neck, slow and reverent. I arch into him, fingers burying in his hair.
He groans softly.
“Careful,” he warns, voice thick with desire. “You keep touching me like that, and I won’t be able to take this slow.”
