Page 75 of Only the Hunter

I’m not certain.

He doesn’t look away.

He also doesn’t move.

So I do.

The kiss is soft at first. Tentative.

A question more than anything else.

His mouth is warm.

I feel the touch of his lips everywhere—my throat, my chest, the tips of my fingers, the slow, steady unraveling of something I’ve held tight for years.

I press closer, into his hard chest, and his hand slides to the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my damp hair. The other hand finds my waist, warm and steady.

The kiss deepens. His grip tightens just slightly, like he’s holding on.

The kiss is slow, unhurried.

Real.

But also like a dream.

I’m the one who breaks it.

Not because I want to.

Because I need to think. And I can’t think when he’s this close. And I don’t trust where this leads if I don’t think it through.

I step back.

His hand lingers at my waist for half a second longer—then drops.

We stand there, breathing too fast, not looking at each other.

“That was—” I start.

“Yeah,” he agrees.

I don’t finish the sentence.

Neither does he.

The silence stretches.

Not awkward. Not comfortable either.

Just—loaded.

Like something’s shifted and neither of us knows how to shift it back. Or if that’s what we want.

My lips still feel warm. “I should check my messages,” I say finally, because it’s easier than addressing what just happened.

“Okay,” he says.

But he doesn’t move toward his side of the room.