The last thread of restraint snaps.
I close the distance, pressing my mouth to hers.
It’s different from last night. Less frantic, more intentional. I savor it all, the first press of her soft lips, the way she inhales sharply then exhales into me like she’s giving me something I don’t deserve. My hand snakes to the back of her neck, fingers tangling in her hair. Her free hand — she’s free now, I gave her that — lifts slowly, hesitates, then curls in the front of my shirt.
That small, voluntary touch floors me.
I deepen the kiss, angling her mouth beneath mine, tasting the faint hint of honey on her tongue. She meets me, stroke for stroke, a quiet hum vibrating in her throat that I swallow greedily.
The blanket shifts as she moves closer. Her knees bump my thigh. Heat pulses from her body. The world narrows to the press of her against me, the catch of her breath, the way her fingers clutch at my chest like she’s holding on.
I break the kiss only when I have to breathe. My lips trail along her jaw, down the line of her throat, finding the rapid pulse flickering there.
“You don’t know what you do to me,” I whisper against her skin. “You never have.”
She shivers at my words. Her hands move up my neck, fingertips brushing the hair at the nape. “I can say the same thing about you right now,” she admits, voice raw with want.
I pull back just a little to look in her eyes. They’re blown wide, pupils dark, but clear and steady. No haze, no panic.
“You’re sure?” I ask, needing it. The part of me that isn’t a selfish bastard needs it on record. “If we keep going, it’s not going to be like last night. I’m not stopping at your thigh, Meredith.”
A pink flush climbs up her neck. “I don't want you to,” she whispers.
“Then give me your words.” My thumb brushes her bottom lip. “Tell me.”
She swallows. The Christmas lights flicker above us, reflecting in her eyes. “I want you,” she says simply. “I want you to touch me again. I want…” She bites her lip, gaze dropping. “I want all of you.”
Every fantasy I’ve ever had collapses under the weight of those words.
“Okay,” I say, voice rough. “Okay.”
I move slowly, giving her every chance to change her mind. My hands slide to her waist, easing her back against the pillows. The blanket slips away, pooling around her hips and revealing the soft, worn T-shirt she’s wearing—mine, because she was in a sweater and work slacks and boots, and I wasn’t about to let her sleep in that.
She looks down at the shirt and back at me, realizing it at the same time. Her fingers toy with the hem.
“You put me in your shirt?” she asks, half scoffing, half shy.
“It looks better on you,” I say softly. “I promise I didn't linger, I just wanted you to sleep comfortably.”
Color rushes to her cheeks. “You’re ridiculous.”
I lean in and kiss the curve of her flushed cheek. “Obsessed,” I murmur. “There’s a difference.”
She lets out a shaky breath that could almost be a laugh, and I drink it in like air.
“Lie back,” I whisper. “Let me look at you.”
She hesitates a split second, then sinks fully into the pillow, hair spilling like dark ink over the white case. Her hands rest open at her sides—palms up, not clenched. Another small miracle.
I kneel beside her on the mattress and trail my fingertips from her collarbone down the center of her chest, brushing over the thin cotton. I didn’t really get to look at her last night when I stripped her out of that sweater and those slacks—untie, retie, don’t wake her, don’t stare—just a blur of cold fingers and panic and the zip tie cutting into my conscience. Now I get to see her.Reallysee her. The girl I used to dream about, wearing my shirt in my bed on Christmas morning.
A groan catches in my throat. I can’t hold it back. I dip my head and press my mouth to hers again.
The kiss starts soft, but it doesn’t stay that way. It deepens, stretches, turns into ten years of swallowed want poured into one slow drag of lips and tongue. I kiss her like I’m memorizing her, like I’m trying to make up for every night I lay awake wishing I’d had the guts to do more when we were younger.
She answers me with this small, desperate sound that shoots straight through my chest. Her mouth parts under mine, inviting, trusting, and I take my time tasting her—coffee and honey and something that’s just Meredith. My hands map her under the thin cotton, relearning what time stole from me—the rise of her chest, the narrow dip of her waist, the curve of her hip. Every inch I touch feels like proof that she’s really here, not a dream I’m about to wake up from.
“Nick,” she breathes. My name sounds like a prayer on her lips.
