Sloane’s breathing is uneven. Mine is worse.
Her gaze flicks to my hands braced on the counter, then back to my face.
“Why do you care?” she whispers.
I stare at her, and the answer sits right there—burning and obvious.
Because I want to kiss you.
Because I’ve wanted to kiss you since I was seventeen.
Because I’m jealous in a way that makes me dangerous, and I hate it.
My eyes drop, just for a second, to her mouth. Then back up.
Her gaze flicks to mine. Then down to my mouth.
Damn it.
My pulse stutters.
I don’t move. I don’t get to.
So I give her the one thing I can that isn’t selfish.
An out.
“Tell me to stop,” I say, voice low. “And I will.”
Sloane’s throat works, but she doesn’t tell me to stop.
The air between us feels electric, tight,alive.
Slowly, deliberately, I shift closer, not rushing, not stealing. My hands stay on the counter, not on her. Not touching. Not taking.
Her breath catches.
Her eyes flick to my mouth again.
And when I lean in that last inch?—
She meets me halfway, andgoddamn.
The kiss isn’t soft.
It isn’t gentle.
It’s years of anger and denial and heat colliding in one breathless, reckless moment.
Her hands fist in my hoodie like she’s furious at herself for wanting this, and I kiss her like I’ve been starving, like I’ve been holding my breath for two damn years.
Because I have been.
Since the first time I saw her walk into the room my junior year of high school and realized Cameron’s annoying little sister had grown into someone who made my chest tight and my brain short-circuit.
Since I learned what it felt like to want someone I had absolutely no right to want.
Mine in every way that mattered except the one way I actually wanted.
