“I can’t sleep,” she says.
“Tiger—”
“I’m trying.” Her voice cracks slightly. “I’m really trying. But it’s hard.”
She moves closer, stands at the edge of my bed.
I should tell her to go. Should tell her we need to talk more before this. That would be the smart move.
Instead, I reach for her.
She comes to me.
I pull her onto the bed. She straddles my lap, and her hands frame my face.
“Jax—”
I kiss her before she can finish.
It starts gentle. Tentative. Like, we’re both testing to see if this is okay. If we’re okay.
Then something breaks open.
She kisses me harder. Desperate. Like she’s been starving for this.
I am too.
My hands slide under her shirt, feeling the warmth of her skin. She shivers when I touch her. She pulls back just enough to yank her shirt over her head. I do the same. Then we’re skin to skin. Breathing hard. Hearts racing.
“Your arm—” I start.
“Is fine,” she finishes.
She’s not fine. Neither am I.
But right now, in this moment, with her hands on my skin and her mouth on mine, I don’t care.
I flip us so she’s under me, still careful of her injury, careful of everything.
“Are you sure?” I ask, not wanting to cross another line. Last night felt like a way of saying goodbye, but right now feels like we’re about to reopen what I thought we were closing.
“Yes.”
“Tiger—”
“Please, Jax. I need this. I need you.”
That breaks whatever restraint I have left.
I kiss her again, deeper this time. My hands map every inch of her I can reach. She arches into me and makes small sounds that drive me insane.
We shed the rest of our clothes and move together like we’re making up for lost time.
And when I finally slide into her, when she gasps my name and grips my shoulders, I feel something shift.
Not fixed. Not resolved.
But different.
