“You dove in without thinking,” I say softly.
“Yeah.”
“You didn’t hesitate.”
“Didn’t need to.”
Something in his voice flips my stomach. It ain’t bravado. It’s instinct. Honest and ugly and unfiltered. I swallow hard and push to my feet, legs unsteady, blanket shifting around me.
We’re close now. Too close. I can see the faint scar along his collarbone and the pulse beating at the base of his throat.
His hand comes up slowly, fingers sliding along the edge of the blanket until they settle at my waist beneath it. Warm. Solid. Possessive without pretending it ain’t.
His thumb presses into my hip, not hard, just enough to change the meaning of his embrace. “You scared me,” he says again, quieter.
The fight leaves me all at once.
My hand moves before I can stop it. I place it flat against his chest. His skin is still damp. Warm. Alive. His heart is beating fast under my palm.
His eyes search mine like he’s looking for something that will let him pull back. He doesn’t find it.
“Brit,” he starts, voice rough.
I don’t let him finish. I’m done pretending I don’t want this. I rise onto my toes and kiss him.
It ain’t careful or sweet. It’s a collision.
His breath catches. For a suspended second he doesn’t move, like his body is arguing with his conscience. Then he’s there, hands coming up. One tangles in my wet hair. The other slides around my waist and pulls me flush against him. The blanket slips and falls, and the loss of it feels like stepping off a ledge again, except this time I’m choosing the drop.
His mouth is hot and hungry, as desperate as I feel. He kisses like a man who almost lost something and doesn’t intend to again. I kiss him back like a woman who’s tired of being scared. Scare of wanting him. When he drags back enough to look at me, his pupils are blown wide and his chest is heaving.
“Tell me to stop,” he says.
I shake my head.
“You’re shivering.”
“Not from cold anymore.”
The smallest curve of his mouth appears, but there’s no humor in it. “You know this complicates everything.”
“It’s already complicated.”
His thumb traces my jaw, down my throat, and I shiver again. “You think I don’t know what they’re gonna say?” he murmurs. “What Bethany’s gonna do?”
“She already hates me.”
“That ain’t the same as what she’ll do when she’s sure.”
The warning lands, but it doesn’t stop me. It just makes the moment sharper.
“Are you sure?” he asks, and it ain’t about the club or his wife. It’s about us. About crossing a line we can’t uncross.
I slide my hands up his shoulders and into his hair. “I’m sure,” I say.
He kisses me again, slower now, intent instead of frantic. His hands slide down my back, over my hips, pulling me close until there’s no space left between us. I feel the hard line of his cock against my stomach and my breath catches. His forehead drops to mine like he’s fighting himself.
“Jesus, Brittany.”
