“Yes.” She doesn’t let me finish. “Yes.”
I take her hand and lead her up the stairs, my heart pounding, barely able to believe this is actually happening. At the top, I pause to check Maisie’s room—door cracked, nightlight glowing, the soft sound of her breathing confirming she’s asleep.
Then, I pull Tori into my bedroom and close the door behind us.
She looks around, taking in the space—the big bed with the gray comforter, the stack of books on my nightstand that I always mean to read. Her gaze returns to me, and the desire in her eyes makes my mouth go dry.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hi.” I cross to her, cupping her face in my hands. “We can slow down if you want. We don’t have to—”
She kisses me to silence my words.
And then we stop talking altogether.
30
WORTH THE WAIT
Tori
The door clicks shut behind us, and suddenly we’re standing in Zayden’s bedroom, surrounded by dim light and anticipation.
He doesn’t rush. Despite the heat that’s been building all night—during dinner, during the drive, during the thirty seconds it took to pay Hannah and usher her out the door—he takes his time now, looking at me as if he wants to memorize this moment.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
“Nervous,” I admit.
“We don’t have to—”
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence.” I step closer, pressing my palm flat against his chest. His heart is pounding just as hard as mine.
“Come here,” he murmurs, and then his mouth is on mine.
The kiss starts slow, almost careful, but it doesn’t stay that way. His hands find my waist, pulling me against him, and I melt into the heat of his body.
My fingers find the buttons of his shirt, and I start working them open. He pulls back just enough to watch me, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
“In a hurry?”
“We’ve been waiting months for this. Yes, I’m in a hurry.”
He laughs, low and warm, and helps me with the last few buttons. The shirt falls open, and I push it off his shoulders, then—
Oh.
Oh, this is a lot.
I’ve seen him shirtless before—dozens of times. I’ve had my hands on this body in a purely professional capacity more times than I can count.
But this is different. This is Zayden in the low light of his bedroom, looking at me like I’m the only thing he’s ever wanted, and I am absolutely not prepared for the full impact of him.
Broad shoulders that seem to go on forever. A chest that’s all hard planes and defined muscle. A dusting of dark hair trails down his stomach to where his belt sits low on his hips. There’s a scar on his left side—an old injury I know the history of—and I want to trace it with my tongue.
“You’re staring,” he says.
“You’re very stareable.”
