I answer by sliding my hand to the back of his neck and pulling him closer, deepening it.
Two decades of longing collapse into this moment. His lips are softer than I imagined, but more certain too. He tastes like coffee and mint and something else—something that’s just him.
He lets out a sound—low, caught between a sigh and a groan—and the vibration of it against my mouth sends a jolt down my spine. His hand finds my waist, pulls me in tighter, until I’m nearly in his lap.
We break for air, foreheads pressed together, our breath mingling in the cold.
“I’ve wanted to do that since high school,” he whispers, his breath warm against my lips.
“Me too,” I admit, still smiling—giddy, a little disbelieving. Earlier than that, honestly. But that’s a story for another time.
The look in his eyes—lit up with wonder and want—makes my heart skip.
“I wasted so much time,” he says, the regret creeping back in.
I shake my head, not letting either of us get pulled into the past.
“We have time,” I tell him. “We have right now. And everything after.”
He nods—just once—and that’s all I need.
Then I’m kissing him again—harder this time, pouring years of want into it. His hands slide up my back, into my hair, holding me like I might disappear. I press in closer, needing to erase every inch between us. Needing to make up for all the years we lost.
The car windows have completely fogged over, our breath turning the world outside into a blur. The storm’s still coming down hard, the temperature dropping. We’re stranded, waitingon a tow truck that might not show for hours. My brother’s birthday dinner is happening without us. There are a thousand things we should probably be thinking about.
But none of it matters. Not with his mouth on mine.
The kiss deepens—it’s no longer soft or careful. It turns hungry, desperate, like everything we’ve held back is breaking loose all at once. Years of want slam into us, tearing through hesitation, leveling the fragile line we spent half a lifetime holding.
Thomas’s hands slide down my back, grip my hips—and in one swift motion, he’s pulling me properly into his lap.
I move with him, straddling his thighs, knees pressed to the cold leather of the back seat. His hands shift lower, cupping my ass. He pulls me tight against him—and that’s when I feel it: the pressure of him, thick and unmistakably hard, straining through our clothes.
Holy shit. Thomas Moore is hard. For me.
The realization hits like a blow to the chest. My brain short-circuits, and all I can think is: this is happening. This is actually happening. The man I’ve been in love with since before I even understood what love was—wants me. No fantasy I ever had comes close to the way his body responds to mine.
I can’t help it—I rock against him, chasing the friction. The pressure is perfect, even through all the fabric. Thomas’s eyes flutter shut, and he makes a sound I’ve never heard from him before—half groan, half gasp, wrecked and wanting.
“Carter,” he breathes.
I roll my hips again, slower this time, grinding down against him. We both moan—the sound raw and hungry inthe tight space between us. The pressure between us is unmistakable, and suddenly I’m achingly aware of my own cock, straining against my chinos, desperate for contact.
“Fuck,” Thomas groans, his voice rough. His hands tighten on my ass, guiding my rhythm against him. “I’ve wanted you for so long, Carter. So fucking long.”
The words hit like a spark to dry kindling.
I crash my mouth against his, all gentleness gone. He responds instantly, his tongue pushing past my lips. The kiss turns messy, desperate, all teeth and tongue and panting breath. I can’t get enough of him—the way he tastes, the rasp of his stubble, the way his chest heaves against mine like he can’t breathe without me.
I roll my hips again, and Thomas groans into my mouth, his grip tightening as he pulls me down harder against him. I can feel him throb beneath me, straining through his pants.
And the fact that I’m the one doing this to him—that composed, controlled Thomas Moore is unraveling under me—sends a rush of heat straight through me.
We move together, finding a rhythm—like we’ve done this a million times. Every roll of my hips, every pull of his hands, every shared moan feels like a conversation we were always meant to have.
“Fuck—” Thomas gasps between kisses. “Is this real? Are you real?”
“I’m real,” I murmur, nipping at his bottom lip.
