Her breath stutters.
The space between us thins to almost nothing.
I should ask.
I should stop.
I should keep the line.
Instead I lift my hand, cup her cheek, and kiss her.
It hits like fire.
Soft at first, because she’s still shaking, because she’s still learning what safe feels like. Then she makes a small sound, and her fingers clutch my cut right over the patch, and my control takes a hit.
I deepen the kiss. Slow. Hungry. Careful anyway, because restraint is the only thing keeping me from becoming the kind of man I hate.
Her lips are warm. Trembling. Real.
I pull back hard, breath rough, my forehead nearly touching hers.
“Ruby,” I murmur, voice tight.
Her eyes are wide, cheeks flushed, lips swollen from one kiss.
She swallows. “Why did you stop?”
I force myself back a step.
“Because you’re shaken,” I say, raw. “And I should know better.”
Her hand stays fisted in my shirt for one more beat before she lets go.
Her voice comes out small. “You didn’t do anything I didn’t want. You asked with your eyes. And I wanted to kiss you.”
Wanted.
The word lands low and hard.
Something in me cracks along a fault line.
I step back in slowly, giving her room to pull away.
She doesn’t.
My thumb brushes her cheek. “Say that again.”
Ruby’s breath shakes. “I wanted to kiss you.”
My whole body goes tight.
“You keep saying things like that,” I murmur, “and my restraint’s going to run out.”
Her hazel eyes lift to mine, bright and brave in a way that makes me want to burn the world down for her.
“I’m still here,” she whispers. “I’m still choosing you.”
That’s all it takes.
