I look at him and suddenly I don’t want to wait anymore. I hold out my hand.
“Come inside.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
His mouth is on mine as soon as we enter. The cottage door has barely clicked shut behind us when Mal crowds me against it, one hand braced on the wood beside my head, the other tangled in my hair. He kisses me like he’s been holding back for years, not days—deep and thorough and devastatingly skilled.
So much for sleep,I think hazily.
“I know,” he murmurs against my lips, reading my expression with uncanny accuracy, “you have a class in three hours.”
“Two and a half now.”
“Even worse.” His teeth catch my lower lip, tugging gently. “I should go. Let you rest. Be responsible.”
“You probably should.”
Neither of us moves.
The morning light filters through my curtains, casting everything in soft gold. I can see the fatigue around his eyes, the slight tension in his shoulders from a night spent sitting on ahardwood floor. He looks rumpled and imperfect and absolutely beautiful.
“I don’t want you to go,” I admit.
Something shifts in his expression. The playful mask he wears so effortlessly slips, revealing something rawer underneath. Something hungry and hopeful and terrifyingly vulnerable.
“Say that again.”
“I don’t want you to go.” My hands find his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “I want you to stay. I want—” The words catch in my throat, but I force them out anyway. “I want you, Mal. All of you. No more walls.”
He goes very still.
“Isadora.” His voice is rough. “If we do this—if I stay—I need you to understand that I won’t be able to hold back. I’ve been trying. Trying to give you space, trying to let you set the pace. But after tonight, after everything you shared...” His forehead presses against mine. “I don’t have that kind of control left.”
“Good.”
“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
“Then show me.”
For a moment, he doesn’t move. Just stares at me with those dark eyes that flicker crimson at the edges, searching for doubt or hesitation or any sign that I don’t mean exactly what I’m saying.
He won’t find it.
“Last chance,” he whispers. “Once I start, I won’t stop. I can’t stop. Not with you.”
I answer by pulling his mouth back to mine.
He lifts me like I weigh nothing. One moment my feet are on the ground, the next my legs are wrapped around his waist and he’s carrying me into the bedroom with confident strides. The bed is unmade from this morning, the rumpled sheets still bearing the impression of my restless sleep. Under normal circumstances, I’d be mortified by the mess.
Now, I couldn’t care less.
He lays me down on the mattress with surprising gentleness, then stands back to look at me. His gaze travels slowly from my face to my toes and back again, and I feel it like a physical touch—warm and thorough and appreciative.
“You’re still dressed,” I point out.
“So are you.”
“That seems like a problem we should solve.”
