His hands framed her face, thumbs sweeping along her cheeks, tilting her head just so, deepening the kiss.
“So sweet,” he murmured, voice rough, reverent.
She didn’t realize he was guiding her backwards until the edge of the table pressed into the backs of her thighs. His hands found her waist, sliding lower, gripping as he lifted her onto the tabletop, and she—God help her—parted her knees, welcoming him between them.
She didn’t want the dream to end.
She clung to him to her, her body pressing into his, arching closer, seeking more.
For the first time in years—long, lonely, endless years—she wasn’t thinking.
She wasn’t worrying.
She wasn’t planning.
She wasn’t sacrificing.
Not today.
Today, she wanted. And today, she was taking.
And then… he snatched it away.
One moment, Alastair was pressed against her, his warmth sinking into her skin, his hands anchoring her in a way that made her feel cherished. Claimed.
The next, he was gone.
Standing two feet away. Breathing harshly. Looking torn.
And—oh God—was that regret?
Daisy’s stomach flipped, the warmth in her chest evaporating into cold, creeping doubt.
His eyes met hers, apology written all over his face. “My apologies, Daisy.” His voice was laced with emotions she didn’t want to decipher. He shook his head, as if trying to clear it, as if trying to undo the last few moments.
Her breath hitched.
“No. I was the one… I—I kissed you,” she said, barely forcing the words past the tight, aching lump in her throat.
She was the one who’d started this.
She.
Kissed.
Him.
What had happened to her good sense? Her self-control? Her pride?
“I didn’t stop you.” His voice was low. And oh, yes, that was regret.
Oh, God.
A rush of heat—shame, humiliation—swept through her. She clenched her hands into fists.
She had thrown herself into a man’s arms—his arms—like a foolish girl ruled by impulse and longing. And worse? She’d done it knowing he didn’t even remember her.
He was injured. Weak. Vulnerable. He didn’t know his own name, let alone hers.
