“I want you,” I whisper, lifting his chin with my hand so he has to hear it.
His brows furrow, his breath shaking. “You shouldn’t.”
“But I do.”
He swallows, the muscles in his throat working hard. “Why?” he asks, voice cracking open.
“Because you see me,” I say, letting my fingers slide down his jaw. “Because you talk to me like I’m not fragile or foolish. Because you don’t want me quiet or perfect or still.” My voice trembles, but I don’t stop. “Because when you kiss me, I feel like I matter.”
His hand flies to my face.
Urgent.
Rough.
Almost desperate.
“You do matter, Little Bird,” he growls. “To me. You have no idea how much.”
I lean in. He meets me halfway.
Our mouths crash together again. It’s harder this time, hungrier, like we’re trying to memorize the shape of something doomed. We know the clock is ticking. And the notes won’t be enough for much longer.
His hands slide under the hem of my hoodie, finding the bare skin of my waist. I gasp into his mouth. He swallows the sound.
I press closer, chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat.
We move together like a storm. Crazy and relentless.
Fierce and breathless.
We are want and need.
Built-up passion simmering to explode.
It’s dangerous yet . . . perfect.
Then—suddenly—he pulls back. Just enough to break the kiss.
Why did he stop?
His forehead drops to mine, breath shaking. “We can’t,” he whispers, voice rough.
“Why?” I breathe, reaching up and sliding my fingers down the column of his throat.
“Because once I start wanting more with you”—his eyes close like the thought hurts—“I won’t be able to stop.”
I take his hand. Lift it. Place it flat against my racing heart.
“Then don’t stop.”
His eyes widen.
It looks like he has something more to say, but instead, he shakes his head and kisses me again.
Slower and deeper this time.
A kiss that says all the things he can’t say.
