Instead, I heard myself say: "I keep thinking about you."
My voice came out rough. Scraped over an honesty I hadn't planned to offer.
Her eyes widened. Those honey-colored eyes that had been watching me with growing warmth all evening, now fixed on my face with something that looked like shock. Or fear. Or hope.
"I shouldn't." The words kept coming, spilling out of some crack in my control I couldn't seem to patch. "You didn't choose this. You didn't choose me. But I can't—"
I stopped. Breathed. The hallway felt too small. She felt too close and not nearly close enough.
"I can't stop."
She should tell me to stop now. Should retreat behind her door and her walls and the safe distance she'd maintained since the wedding. Should remind me that I'd promised not to touch her until she asked.
She didn't move.
Her lips parted. A small breath escaped, catching slightly in her throat.
I reached out slowly. Giving her time. Always giving her time to pull away, to say no, to choose something other than me.
My fingers found a strand of hair that had fallen across her cheek. I tucked it behind her ear. Let my fingertips graze the soft skin of her temple, her cheekbone, the delicate curve of her jaw.
She shivered.
"Gemma."
Her name was a question.
She answered by swaying toward me.
I cupped her face the way I had at the altar. Both hands. Warm palms against her cheeks. Thumbs brushing her cheekbones. But this time there was no audience. No three hundred witnesses waiting to evaluate our performance. No priest. No cameras. No obligation.
Just us.
Just this.
I kissed her.
The first touch was soft. Tentative. A question neither of us had expected to ask. My mouth found hers gently, carefully, giving her every opportunity to pull away.
She didn't pull away.
Her hands fisted in my shirt, and she made a small sound against my mouth—that same sound from the wedding, the one that had unraveled something in my chest—and everything ignited.
I deepened the kiss. Tilted her face, changed the angle, tasted her properly. She tasted like honey from the tea and something sweeter underneath, something that was just her. My hands slid from her face to her hair, fingers tangling in the dark silk of it, holding her closer than I had any right to hold her.
She kissed me back.
Not the passive acceptance of a woman performing her duty. This was active. Hungry. Her hands climbed from my chest to my shoulders, pulling me closer, and when I pressed her against the door she made another sound—surprise, or pleasure, or both—that went straight to my spine.
I could feel her heartbeat. Rapid, desperate, matching the rhythm of my own. I could feel the heat of her through the thin silk of her pajamas. I could feel the way her body arched into mine, seeking more, demanding more.
I wanted to give her more.
Wanted to lift her, carry her through that door, lay her down on that bed she'd been sleeping in alone. Wanted to show her with my hands and mouth all the things I couldn't find words for. Wanted to take her apart and put her back together and make her understand what she was doing to me.
But I'd made her a promise.
I pulled back.
