No. She isn’t. I lower my forehead to hers.
“You’re dangerous,” I murmur.
“Because I understand you?”
“Because you make me feel understood.”
Her lips part slightly.
“That’s not dangerous,” she says.
“It is when I’ve built my life on control.”
“And?”
“And you unravel it.”
Her fingers curl into my shirt. “You don’t want control,” she whispers. “You want connection.”
I drag my thumb along her jaw. “Careful.”
“Or what?”
“Or I’ll stop holding back.”
Her breath stutters. “Maybe I don’t want you to.”
The tension snaps tight.
“Say that again,” I demand softly.
She swallows. “Maybe I don’t want you to.”
My mouth finds hers. This time slower. Deliberate. I taste her hesitation and her courage intertwined.
My hand slides to her waist, pulling her flush against me. She melts into it. Her hands glide up my chest, over my shoulders.
“You’re shaking,” I murmur against her mouth.
“So are you.”
I huff a low laugh. “Don’t get cocky.”
“Too late.”
I pull back just enough to look at her. “You don’t get to honor my past and then pretend you don’t own my present.”
Her cheeks flush. “Own?”
I lean closer. “Yes.”
Her lips tremble slightly.
“You don’t scare me,” she whispers.
“You should.”
“Why?”
