“Inside,” I say quietly.
She follows me without a word.
The door closes behind us with a soft click, and the warmth hits her immediately. Firelight flickers across her face, and quiet wraps around us, soothing our nervous energy.
Jane stands in the entryway, arms folded tight across her chest, staring at the floor as if she’s bracing for... something.
I automatically pull off my coat and hat and hang them up, falling back on routine and control; anything to keep my hands from grabbing her.
When I turn back, she’s watching me.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she says suddenly.
I pause. “With what?”
“With”—she gestures vaguely between us, cheeks going even redder—“this.”
I take a slow step closer. “You don’t have to do anything.”
Her eyes flash. “I want to.”
That stops me cold.
“I want...” She pauses, searching for the words. “I want to do the sex thing. With you.” Her voice drops like she’s confessing a crime.
For a heartbeat, my brain blanks. Then my body responds like a damn animal. Heat, hard and immediate, flows through me, along with possessiveness and want so sharp it hurts.
Jane lifts her chin, defiant even while she’s shaking. “That sounded stupid.”
“It didn’t,” I manage, but my voice is rough enough to scrape. “Jane...”
“I’m serious,” she says, stepping closer as if she’s determined to plant herself in my space. “I didn’t know…The... things you made me feel. I don’t know what to do with them. And I want—” Her breath stutters. “I want my first time to be with you.”
The words hit me like a punch. Not because I don’t want it. Because I do. God, I do.
But the weight of it, of her first time, her trust, her offering something she can’t take back, wraps tight around my ribs.
My hands lift automatically, stopping just short of touching her. Restraint by millimeters.
“Jane,” I say carefully, “look at me.”
She does.
Her eyes are too bright. Too hopeful. Too raw.
“I want you,” I tell her, honest and unvarnished. “More than I should. More than is smart.”
Her breath catches as if a part of her is relieved I said it out loud.
“But,” I continue, forcing myself to say the part that matters, “I’m not having sex with you tonight.”
Her expression flashes with something that’s not quite hurt. It’s sharper. It’s fear that this is rejection.
“What?” she whispers.
I shake my head immediately. “Not because I don’t want to. Because I do. Because I’m barely holdin’ on by my fingernails.”
Jane’s brows draw together. “Then why?—”
