“Okay.” A tremor fractures the word, a vibration of… happiness? Possibility? “We’ll figure out what to do. But now—” She lifts our joined hands and pulls me forward. “Can you please just kiss me?”
I smirk. “See if I can get it out of your system this time?”
She leans closer still, whispering, “You have a lot more kissing to do before that happens.”
I let go of her hands and cup her face.
Her skin is warm from the fire. I tilt her chin up and close the distance.
The first brush of my lips against hers is gentle. I hold the light pressure for a few heartbeats, savoring the tremble of her lower lip, the catch of her breath, the way her fingers come up to grip my wrists like she’s afraid I’ll pull away.
I won’t.
Instead, I press deeper, and her mouth opens beneath mine. I taste the salt from her tears, the faint sweetness of the lip gloss, and underneath just Peyton.
She sighs into the kiss, and the sound unravels me.
I slide one hand behind her neck and angle her to have better access. My tongue slides against hers.
The gentleness burns off. She meets my rhythm with a hunger that hollows out my chest. Her fingers slip from my wrists to fist in the collar of my sweater, dragging my weight forward. I hold her steady by her nape, my thumb tracking the heavy thud of her pulse along her jaw. We have no audience. No obligations. No one to impress. This is real.
A soft sound breaks in the back of her throat. I swallow the noise, greedily.
I kiss her until my lungs demand oxygen. And even then, I drag it out, scraping my teeth along her bottom lip to steal one final second of contact before I pull back just long enough to breathe. I drop my forehead over hers.
“Hi,” I whisper against her lips.
She laughs, a breathless, broken sound that vibrates between our mouths. “Hi.”
I kiss her again. Slower now, taking my time, mapping the fullness of her lower lip with my tongue, then my teeth. She shivers when I press light kisses on her jaw.
Her hands drift down to my chest, palms flat over my heart.
I kiss along the line of her neck. Peyton tips her head back, granting access, and I trail my tongue down the column of her throat. Her pulse flutters wild and desperate beneath my lips.
“Liam,” she breathes. My name in her mouth, in that voice—wrecked and wanting—is a sound I will spend the rest of my life trying to earn again.
I return to her lips. We kiss until the fire crackles down to embers and the room dims to a warm, amber glow. Until my back aches from the angle and the stiff coils of her updo surrender a few rogue curls. Until we’re both breathless and trembling and grinning against each other’s mouths.
When we pull apart, her eyes are shiny. Not with tears, fear, or doubt. They’re no longer haunted like the night I found her shivering on Main Street.
They’re bright with joy. Simple, uncomplicated, radiant happiness.
And mine must be the same, because she reaches up and cups my cheek. “You look happy.”
I catch her hand and press a kiss to her palm.
“I am.”
“Me too.”
I keep trailing kisses over her knuckles. “Anything I can do to make you happier?”
“Well.” She cocks her head in a playful challenge. “As pretty as this dress is, the boning is getting uncomfortable. Think you could give me a hand taking it off?”
She lays the trap with a wicked spark in her eye, and I take the bait, a willing captive.
37
