I do.
His hands slide to my waist, warm through the fabric, pulling me just close enough that I feel his breath on my lips.
But he doesn’t kiss me.
Not yet.
He studies my face like he needs a lifetime to memorize it.
“You’re sure?” he asks.
My voice comes out in a whisper. “Yes.”
“Not because of last night.”
“No.”
“Not because you think I expect anything.”
“No.”
“Because you want me?”
I breathe out…
“Because I wantyou.”
Something breaks in his eyes.
Something good.
Something deep.
He lifts a hand to cradle my cheek, thumb brushing softly along my cheekbone.
“You don’t know what that means to me,” he whispers.
My heart flips.
I lean in, just a little. Just enough for our lips to almost touch.
He inhales sharply.
Then he kisses me.
Soft at first, barely there. It’s a promise in the shape of a kiss.
Then deeper and armer.
His hands slide higher on my waist, then lower, pulling me against him.
My fingers curl into his shirt.
His breath shudders.
He kisses me like he’s letting something go, or claiming something new.
When he pulls back, he presses his forehead to mine.
