The kiss is gentle, because ten years of wanting doesn’t make me reckless—it makes me reverent. I press my mouth to hers like I’m making up for every moment I didn’t get, every almost that got stolen from us.
She makes a soft sound in the back of her throat, and my self-control slips a notch.
Her hands rise to my chest, palms flat, fingers splaying like she’s anchoring herself. I feel her heartbeat under her touch—fast, frantic, alive.
I pull back just enough to look at her.
Her lips are swollen already, eyes blown wide. She looks like she’s trying to remember how to breathe.
“You okay?” I ask, voice rough.
She nods, but her voice shakes. “Don’t stop.”
That’s all it takes.
I kiss her again—deeper this time, slower and hungrier. Her mouth opens under mine, and the heat between us turns electric. She grips my shirt and tugs, pulling me closer until there’s no air left between our bodies.
I brace my hand on the door beside her head, the other at her waist, holding her like I’ve been waiting my whole life to be allowed to.
Her fingers slide up my neck into my hair, and when she pulls me down harder, something feral kicks in low and hot.
I kiss her like a man who’s done being good.
She answers like she’s done being careful.
We break for breath, foreheads almost touching, both of us shaking a little.
“This is going to make everything messier,” she whispers.
“Yeah,” I breathe. “But I’m done pretending I don’t want the mess if it’s you.”
Her laugh is breathless and broken. “God,” she murmurs, and then she kisses me first—like she heard her own fear and decided to swing at it.
That does me in.
I slide my hand from her waist up her side, stopping at her ribs, feeling her inhale. I don’t go further than she invites. I don’t take what she doesn’t give. But the way she presses into my touch is its own kind of permission.
I guide her backward—slow—until the backs of her knees bump the edge of the bed.
She sits, tugging me down with her like she’s claiming her right to want me too.
I hover an inch away, searching her face one more time.
“Still yes?” I ask.
Her eyes flash. “Still yes.”
So I kiss her again, and the bed dips as I shift closer, one knee braced beside her, careful not to crowd, careful not to trap. My hand slides to her thigh—warm skin, a shiver—and stops there, thumb circling lightly as if my body is memorizing her the way my mind has been trying to for years.
Her breath stutters. Her hands sweep over my shoulders, down my back, fingers digging in like she’s making sure I’m real. I remove my shirt in a flash and her fingernails sink into my skin. It turns me on.
“You have no idea,” I murmur against her mouth.
“Then tell me,” she whispers.
“I’ve thought about you in places I shouldn’t have survived,” I admit softly. “I’ve heard your laugh in the silence after a bad day. I’ve carried the idea of you like a compass.” I kiss her again, slower. “And I have wanted this—wanted you—so long it feels like my bones know you.”
Her eyes shine. Her voice is barely a thread.
