When she pulls back, her cheeks are flushed, her breathing uneven. “Show me,” she says.
“Show you what?”
“How much you missed me.”
The words break what’s left of my control. I cup her face in my hands, kiss her like I’m trying to pour weeks of regret and longing into the connection. She responds immediately, her hands fisting in my shirt, pulling me closer until there’s no space left between us.
The kiss deepens quickly, relief and apology tangled in the desperate press of our mouths. My hands are tentative at first, skimming over her waist, her back, like I’m afraid she’ll change her mind. But when she pulls me closer, when she makes that soft sound against my lips, something in me snaps.
My hands grip her tighter, one sliding up to tangle in her hair, the other pressing against the small of her back. She tastes like mint and something uniquely her, and I can’t get enough.
“Off,” she breathes against my mouth, tugging at my shirt.
My hands shake as I pull it over my head, and she’s already reaching for the hem of hers. When she lifts it away, revealing the soft curves of her breasts, I forget how to breathe.
“God, Bree,” I whisper, my voice rough. “You’re so beautiful.”
Her cheeks flush, but she doesn’t look away. Instead, she reaches for my belt, fingers fumbling with the buckle in her urgency.
“Let me,” I say, but my own hands are trembling so badly I can’t get the damn thing undone.
She laughs—actually laughs—and pushes my hands away. “Here, let me before you break it.”
“Smooth, firefighter,” I mutter to myself, heat creeping up my neck.
“Don’t worry.” She gets my belt undone with efficient fingers, then looks up at me with soft eyes. “I’m nervous too.”
“You are?”
“Of course I am.” She tugs my jeans down my hips. “This matters, Rhett. You matter.”
She helps me out of my jeans when I hesitate, and then we’re both naked, skin against skin for the first time. The sensation is overwhelming—her warmth, the softness of her body pressed against mine.
I lift her easily, her legs wrapping around my waist as I carry her to the bed. When I lay her down, she’s looking at me with something that takes my breath away—want and tenderness and trust all tangled together.
I start at her mouth, kissing her deeply before trailing down her throat. When I reach her breasts, I take my time, learning the weight of them in my hands, the way her nipples peak under my tongue.
“Rhett,” she gasps when I suck gently, her back arching off the bed.
The sound of my name like that nearly undoes me. I worship each breast with reverent attention, my hands moving down, mapping the curve of her waist, the flare of her hips. Her skin is so soft, so warm under my palms.
When I kiss my way down her stomach, she goes very still.
“You don’t have to—” she starts.
“I want to taste you,” I say, looking up at her. “Please.”
Her breath hitches. “Okay.”
I settle between her thighs, and the sight of her—pink and glistening and ready—makes my mouth water. The first tentative lick makes her hips buck, a broken moan escaping her throat.
She tastes incredible—salt and sweetness and something that’s purely her. I’m clumsy at first, trying to figure out what she likes, but I follow her responses. When I find her clit with my tongue, she cries out.
“There,” she gasps, one hand threading through my hair. “Oh God, right there.”
I focus on that spot, alternating between gentle licks and firmer pressure. Her thighs start to shake around my head, and I slide two fingers inside her, feeling how wet and tight she is.
“Fuck,” she breathes, her hips moving against my mouth. “Don’t stop.”
