“Last chance to run.”
She smiles.
“I’m not running from this.”
“Good.”
I kiss her again, deeper now, letting my restraint melt without losing control. Her hands move more confidently, sliding over my shoulders, down my chest. Her fingers curl into the fabric of my shirt, tugging slightly.
“You’re still too dressed,” she murmurs.
A grin tugs at my mouth. “Bossy.”
“Maybe.”
I step back just long enough to pull my shirt over my head. Her eyes trace over me, unashamed.
“That better?” I ask.
Her lips part slightly. “Much.”
I step forward again, lifting her easily onto the counter. She gasps softly, hands gripping my shoulders.
“I like when you do that,” she says.
“I know.”
“How?”
“Because you stop pretending you’re in control.”
Her eyes flash. “I don’t need control.”
“No,” I murmur, stepping between her knees. “You need trust.”
I press my forehead to hers again. Her hands slide into my hair, pulling me down for another kiss.
This one feels different.
Reverent.
Slow.
When we finally break apart, she rests her head against my chest, listening to my heartbeat. I wrap my arms around her fully, holding her against me.
For the first time in years, loving someone doesn’t feel like betrayal.
It feels like expansion.
Like the house didn’t lose something.
It gained.
I press a kiss to the top of her head.
“You’re not my second chance,” I say quietly.
“What am I?”
