Not hesitant, not questioning. Just closes the distance and presses her mouth to mine with the same determination she brought to learning self-defense. I freeze for half a second, surprise and want and every reason this is a bad idea warring in my head.
Then I'm kissing her back, and the world narrows to the taste of her mouth, the heat of her body, the small sound she makes when I pull her closer.
My hand slides into her hair, fingers threading through the strands, tilting her head to the angle I want. She opens for me immediately, her tongue sliding against mine, and the taste of her after eight years nearly brings me to my knees. I've imagined this so many times, but memory doesn't compare to reality.
Rachel makes a sound low in her throat, something between relief and need, and presses closer. Her hands fist in my shirt hard enough that I hear the fabric strain, pulling me down until there's no space left between us. The rapid rise and fall of her chest, the tremor in her fingers.
Eight years since I tasted her, held her, felt her come alive under my touch. Every second of that time collapses into this moment. Every reason I left, every night I spent wanting her, every time I convinced myself walking away was the right choice—all of it burns away under the reality of her mouth on mine.
I break the kiss only long enough to shift my grip, hands spanning her waist, feeling the heat of her skin through her shirt. Her pulse hammers beneath my palms. When I kiss her again, it's deeper, harder, eight years of hunger pouring into the contact. She meets me intensity for intensity, nails digging into my shoulders through my shirt, her breathing ragged against my mouth.
"Colton," she gasps, and my name on her lips undoes me.
I shift our position, backing her against the padded wall of the gym. The movement presses our bodies together from chestto hip, and Rachel's head falls back against the wall, exposing the line of her throat. I trace the path with my mouth, tasting salt and skin, feeling her pulse jump beneath my lips.
She arches into the touch, a sharp intake of breath that I feel against my mouth.
I capture her mouth again, swallowing whatever she was going to say next. My thumb traces patterns on the skin just above her waistband, and she shivers, fingers tangling in my hair, pulling hard enough to send sparks down my spine.
This kiss tastes like coming home and falling off a cliff at the same time. Like every good decision and every terrible one I've ever made. Like eight years of wanting someone so much it physically hurt, and finally—finally—being allowed to touch her again.
Rachel's hands slide under my shirt, palms hot against my ribs, my back, learning the contours of muscle and scar tissue. Every place she touches burns. Every breath she takes against my mouth makes me want more.
I've been in firefights that required less control than this. Combat situations where split-second decisions meant life or death. But nothing has ever tested my discipline like keeping this at kissing when every cell in my body is screaming to take more, claim more, make sure she knows exactly how much I've wanted this.
"Stop treating me like I'll break," she whispers between kisses. "I'm stronger than you think."
"I know you are," I manage. "That's not what scares me."
"Then what does?"
"Breaking you anyway. Wanting you so much that I stop being careful." The words come out rough, raw. "I left eight years ago because I loved you. Because loving you could get you killed. And now I'm back, and nothing's changed except I want you even more and the threat is worse."
She pulls back enough to meet my eyes. Her pupils are dilated, lips swollen from kissing, breathing ragged. Everything I never stopped wanting stares back at me.
"I'm trying to keep enough distance that I can still think tactically, still do my job. But you're making that impossible."
Understanding dawns in her expression. "That's why you keep pulling away."
"Yes."
"What if I don't want distance?" Her hands slide up to cup my face, forcing me to maintain eye contact. "What if I don't want the operator? What if I want the man who loves me?"
The question destroys the last of my resistance.
I kiss her again, harder this time, pouring eight years of wanting into the contact. My hands frame her face, tilting her head to the angle I want, and she opens for me immediately. Her tongue slides against mine and I groan into her mouth, the sound embarrassing and inevitable.
Rachel makes a matching sound, her fingers tangling in my hair, pulling me closer even though there's no space left between us. I can feel every curve of her body pressed against mine, feel the rapid beat of her heart, feel her breathing change as the kiss deepens.
My hands slide from her face to her waist, pulling her harder against me.
"Colton," she gasps against my mouth, my name a plea and a demand.
My mouth moves from her lips to her jaw, down the column of her throat, tasting salt and skin and Rachel. She tilts her head back, giving me access, her breathing ragged in my ear.
"Eight years," I breathe against her neck. "Eight years I've wanted this. Wanted you."
"Then stop holding back." Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me impossibly closer. "Stop thinking. Just feel."
