“Time has changed us. Nothing may be the same,” he says quietly. “But your body can’t lie to me.”
Without thinking, acting on impulse, I fist his shirt into my palms and shove him backward toward the nearest stone column. His back hits it with a dull thud.
I breathe heavily as I stare into this man.
For half a second, surprise flashes across his face. Then it’s gone, replaced by something hot and dangerous.
“Tell me what you want, little one.”
“You want to psychoanalyze me?”
His hands move to my waist, sliding down to my hips as he pulls me closer. Firm and removing every inch of space there is left between us.
“Tell me what you want,” he repeats. His mouth brushes with mine until he claims it.
Out of instinct and familiarity, I press into him, into his kiss. My body arches.
His hands travel everywhere. One arm bands around my waist, hauling me impossibly close against him. The other fists in my hair, tugging gently at my scalp at a different angle.
His mouth opens against me, tasting of morning air and a musk that’s distinctly him, male. This kiss is slow and intimate. He doesn’t just claim; he explores. As if he’s kissing me for the first time.
The world narrows to friction as his hand slides down and grips the back of my thigh, lifting and pressing it against him.
My body melts farther into him, remembering exactly how to. Like I’ve never left his body in the ten years we’ve been apart.
His mouth drags from my lips, down to my jaw, past my throat, and to the swells of my breasts.
I close my eyes to the feel of his mouth, his tongue, on my skin. So familiar yet different. Rather than fast, he’s deliberately slow. Rather than erratic, he’s meticulous. His pleasure in this moment is all I can focus on.
His teeth then graze lightly beneath my ear. I gasp.
I rock my hips forward, desperate for friction against his hard length under my bundle of nerves.
He stills me with his large hands on my hips as his lips crash back to mine. I whimper and moan.
For a moment, he pulls back. “Tell me to stop,” he growls.
I can’t. That’s the problem.
My body hums, my skin electric. Every nerve ending is lit up like it’s been asleep—and just woke up with ravenous thirst.
But this—this moment, this heat, this pleasure—doesn’t fix anything. It can’t answer why things happened the way they did, much less erase the silence I had to endure. And it sure as hell doesn’t rebuild the trust that was lost.
I push against him, breaking from the kiss and his hold on my body. He doesn’t resist or try to pull me back.
Cool air hits my damp lips. My pulse roars in my ears as I catch my breath. My thighs are trembling. I feel damp between my legs.
“This,” I say, breath uneven, “is exactly the problem.”
His chest rises and falls slowly, but his expression remains fixed. “What is? We both still want each other.”
“That’s not the point.”
“I know it isn’t. But I still want you. I always have.” The admission hangs there for a beat.
“Wanting me physically doesn’t get me to trust you.”
“I more than want you like that. It’s always been this way for me.”
