With her, I can forget.
With her, I can breathe again.
“I was afraid I lost you, too,” I admit.
Her brows knit, and she parts her lips. I sense she wants to ask what I mean.
She doesn’t.
Instead, she rubs my cheek with her thumb, slow and reassuring, “I’m fine. I’m here.”
I blow out a breath and press my forehead to hers, breathing her in. Warm vanilla from her body wash. The faint scent of white wine on her lips. The steady rhythm of her breath against mine.
“You’re here,” I echo.
She nods slowly. “I’m here.”
I pull back slightly, just enough to drag my thumb over her bottom lip. She shivers, and it goes straight to my gut.
Her hands drift to my chest, and for a fleeting moment, I expect her to push against me. Put space between us.
She doesn’t.
Instead, she clutches my shirt.
The smart thing, therightthing, would be to step back. But I’m not feeling smart right now. I’m feeling the weeks of restraint fraying with every heartbeat.
So I lean closer, the seconds stretching as I inch my lips toward her. Testing how far I can go.
And she still doesn’t fight me, even when my lips are a whisper away from hers.
“Tell me to stop,” I murmur, my voice low and rough, almost begging her to put on the brakes since I’m not capable of doing it myself.
“I…”
“Claire.” I meet her gaze, desperate for something. Permission. Damnation. At this point, I don’t care. “Tell me to stop. Otherwise, I’m going to do what I’ve been wanting to do since I left you in Boston.”
“What’s that?”
“I think you know.”
She inches her lips closer, the promise of her kiss within reach. “I wouldn’t want to presume. So why don’t you show me? Then I can decide if I want you to stop.”
Goddamn this woman. She doesn’t play fair. She never has. It’s one of the things that drives me crazy about her.
“Show me, Declan,” she encourages when I don’t immediately make a move, her grip on my shirt tightening even more. “Show me what you’ve wanted to do since Boston.”
I don’t hesitate. Don’t pause to think how wrong this is.
Instead, I do as she asks and crush my lips to hers.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CLAIRE
Declan’s lips are urgent,almost punishing, but I meet him with the same desperation.
Weeks of wanting, of staring too long, of pulling away before we crossed the point of no return ignite like gasoline meeting flame. My fingers twist in the fabric of his shirt, yanking him closer until we’re chest to chest, heat to heat.
