His breath catches.
“And then you left,” I say. “You left me standing over Leon’s body with no chance to decide whether you were someone I could keep loving.”
“Maya.”
“No. You asked.”
He takes another step toward me.
This time, I do not move back.
“I love you,” he says.
No performance. No smirk. No command.
The words are low and wrecked.
“I have loved you since the first moment you looked at me from that stage like you were trying to decide whether I was a threat or a problem you could survive.” His hand lifts, stopping near my face without touching. “I loved you when you hated me. I loved you when you stood in my house and made demands no one else would have survived making.”
My eyes close.
“You are the only person who has ever made me want to be better without making me feel weak for wanting it,” he says.
That does it.
I reach for him.
The moment my hands find his shirt, his control breaks.
His mouth crashes into mine.
The kiss is nothing like the last night in Miami. There is no softness in it at first. No careful exploration. It is anger and grief and relief pressed into one impossible collision. My back hits the bedroom door. His hand catches the side of my face before I can strike it, not trapping me, only holding me there while I kiss him like I am trying to punish him for every day he stayed gone.
He makes a rough sound against my mouth.
Good.
Let him hurt.
My fingers twist in his shirt. I pull him closer. He responds instantly, one hand at my waist, the other still cradling my jaw as though he is afraid I will vanish if he lets go.
"Maya." It scrapes out of him against my mouth. "Tell me what you need."
"You don't get to ask questions tonight." I yank his shirt free of his waistband, press my palms flat to the heat of his stomach, feel the muscle jump under my hands. "You have a month to make up for. Start now."
He kisses me harder.
The room narrows around us. His hands move underneath my shirt, warm on my skin, then higher, slower, as if he is relearning every place he has spent a month trying not to remember. I hate that my body responds to him so quickly. I hate that every touch feels like it has been waiting for us.
He lifts me easily, and I wrap my legs around his waist before I can argue with myself. My back presses to the wall. His mouth finds the hollow of my throat.
“Still angry?” he murmurs.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
The answer pulls a laugh from me, breathless and broken.
