"Like that," I whisper. "Exactly like that."
The space between us crackles with tension. Dean's hands flex on his thighs, like he's physically restraining himself from reaching for me.
"Harper." My name is a warning, a prayer, a question.
"I'm not scared of you." I shift closer, drawn by something stronger than gravity. "I probably should be. But I'm not."
"You should be." His voice is strained. "I'm not... I don't know how to be gentle anymore."
"I don't want gentle." Another inch closer. "I want real."
His eyes darken. "Don't say things like that unless you mean them."
"I mean everything when I'm with you." The confession slips out, honest as a heartbeat. "That's what scares me."
He moves then, one hand coming up to cup my face. His palm is rough with calluses, but his touch is devastatingly tender. "Tell me to stop."
"No."
"Harper." His thumb traces my bottom lip, and my eyes flutter closed. "Look at me."
I open my eyes to find him inches away, close enough to count his eyelashes, to see the flecks of gold in his blue irises.
"I need you to be sure," he says roughly. "Because once I kiss you, everything changes."
"Maybe I want everything to change." I lift my hand to his chest, feel his heart thundering under my palm. "Maybe I'm tired of being careful."
A sound like a growl rumbles through him. His other hand slides into my hair, tilting my face up.
"Last chance," he whispers against my lips.
Instead of answering, I close the final distance between us.
The first brush of his lips is gentle, questioning. But when I make a small sound in my throat, something in him breaks.
The kiss turns fierce, desperate, like he's trying to pour years of solitude into a single moment. His beard scratches my skin, his hands tighten in my hair, and I feel it everywhere, sparks of electricity racing down my spine.
I've been kissed before, but never like this. Never like I'm being claimed and worshipped and devoured all at once. Never like I'm precious and dangerous and as necessary as breathing.
When we finally break apart, we're both shaking.
"Harper." He rests his forehead against mine, his breath uneven. "Tell me this is real."
I touch his face, trace the scar on his jaw, feel him tremble under my fingers.
"The realest thing I've ever known," I whisper, and pull him down to kiss me again.
"Wow," I breathe when we finally break apart again. "So that's what Emma meant by 'mountain man intensity.'"
Dean's chuckle rumbles through his chest where I'm pressed against him. "You really need to stop talking about Emma while I'm kissing you."
"Would you prefer I quote Jane Austen? Because I'm getting serious Mr. Darcy vibes here. You know, brooding, mysterious, surprisingly good at kissing—"
He silences me with another kiss, shorter this time but no less devastating. "I'm nothing like Darcy."
"Please. You literally rescued me in a snowstorm and took me to your estate."
"Cabin," he corrects, his fingers tracing patterns on my spine that make it hard to think. "And Darcy didn't cook dinner."
