I peer down at her.
Her eyes are wide, her lips swollen, and her breathing ragged.
Her fingers press to my chest, but she’s not pushing me away. She’s just touching me.
“This is . . .” Her voice shakes. “This is wrong?” It raises a question. I shake my head.
“Almost everything in my life is wrong.” I brush my thumb across her cheek. “But this isn’t.”
I pull back slightly.
My voice comes out softer. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”
Her breath catches, and her eyes search mine.
She didn’t object . . . so I kiss her again.
Slower this time.
Deeper.
My hands slide down her back, feeling every shiver, every tremble. She arches into me.
This isn’t just a kiss. Nor is it lust. It’s so much more.
It’s grief.
It’s history.
It’s years of longing for each other despite never admitting it.
I move her back, guiding her into the pillows, my body hovering over hers, careful not to crush.
This time, she pulls me down until her lips find mine again. She kisses me urgently.
Needy.
“Lorenzo.” My name on her lips, like a prayer . . . It wrecks me.
“Don’t say my name like that,” I brush my mouth over hers. “I’ll start believing I deserve it.”
“You don’t,” she whispers.
I smile against her lips. “I know.”
This moment feels inevitable.
Like we’ve been moving toward this since the day she walked back into my life . . . or I stormed into hers.
I keep my mouth on hers, keeping my hands steady.
Victoria lies beside me, curled toward my chest as her body moves there without asking her permission. Her hair is a mess across the pillow.
“I hate you,” she whispers, voice barely there.
I kiss her forehead. “I know.”
Her fingers curl into my shirt. “But I don’t. . .” She chokes. “Not really.”
