Her heart twisted.
She shifted onto her elbow, propped beside him. “I know what you want. And I know what you are afraid to ask for.”
His eyes flicked to hers, shadowed and unreadable. “You do not owe me anything.”
“Then maybe I want to give it,” she said. “Not out of debt. Not because you rescued me. But because I want you to touch me like I am more than something to be protected. Like I am yours.”
Johnathan sat up, running a hand through his hair. The motion was rough, frustrated. He stared into the fire, jaw flexing.
“I do want you,” he said. “By God, I do. But not like this. Not while we are still running. Not when everything between us feels so raw I can hardly breathe.”
She sat up beside him, pulling the blanket higher around her shoulders.
“What if this is all we ever have?” she asked. “What if we are caught tomorrow, or forced apart? What if this—this room, this night—is the only place I get to be yours?”
The words hit him like a blade.
He turned toward her, eyes full of something feral and tender all at once. “Then I will remember this night as the one I had to say no. Because if I let myself touch you now, Frances, I will never stop.”
Silence bloomed in the space between them.
She reached for his hand. Laced their fingers.
“I do not want you to stop. I close you.”
He bowed his head, his forehead brushing hers. His breath was shaky, controlled by sheer force of will.
“Frances, I want you more than I have ever wanted anything in my life. But I also want you to know that you are not a secret. Not a mistake. Not a fever dream from which I will wake. You are everything. And if we cross that line tonight, I want to do it knowing we are building something that lasts beyond morning.”
She closed her eyes.
He was giving her the one thing no one else ever had.
The right to choose.
She leaned into him and pressed a kiss to his cheek—light and lingering, just beneath the hollow of his jaw.
“I understand.”
He exhaled. “You are going to undo me, Frances Rowley.”
She smiled. “You have already undone me.”
His mouth met hers, soft and tentative at first, then with growing hunger. Frances melted into the kiss, her fingers threading through his hair as she pulled him closer. Johnathan’s arm encircled her waist, drawing her flush against him.
The world narrowed to the heat of his mouth, the strength of his hands, the hammering of her heart. Frances gasped as his lips trailed along her jaw, down the column of her throat. Her skin tingled everywhere he touched.
“Johnathan,” she breathed, hardly recognizing her own voice.
He pulled back, eyes dark with desire. “We should sleep,” he said hoarsely. “Tell me to stop.”
Frances cupped his face in her hands. “I want you,” she whispered. “Do not stop.”
A low groan escaped him as he claimed her mouth once more. There was no hesitation now, no holding back. Frances surrendered herself to the rising tide of sensation, to the rightness of being in Johnathan’s arms.
As clothing fell away and skin met skin, Frances marveled at how natural it felt—as if their bodies had always known one another. His touch was reverent, his gaze full of wonder as he explored every inch of her.
His hand trailed up her thigh to rest at the apex of her legs. Frances gasped, arching into his touch. Johnathan’s eyes locked with hers, and she nodded, breath catching as he slowly slid a finger inside her.
