Page 57 of Reckless

Fuck.

I gently work her fingers loose and reach for the throw blanket folded over the arm of the sofa. The soft gray wool settles over her as I pull it up around her shoulders, and she burrows deeper into the cushions without opening her eyes.

At first, it’s nothing more than a sleepy shift, her brow creasing slightly as though she’s trying to remember where she is. Then her eyes open, unfocused and heavy with sleep, finding me without really finding me at all.

“Sage…”

Her hand reaches up. It happens so quickly I don’t have time to react. Her fingers curl around the front of my shirt, and she tugs me toward her with surprising determination, the movement carrying me off balance just enough that I catch myself on the edge of the table before I end up in her lap. “What are you…” The question never leaves my mouth.

Her lips meet mine.

Soft, warm, and so impossibly gentle that for the first second my brain refuses to accept what’s happening.

I stop breathing.

Everything else stops with me. It all disappears beneath the impossible reality of Sage kissing me.

It’s over almost before I’ve managed to catch up, and she draws back barely an inch, her eyes still hazy with sleep, still caught somewhere between dreaming and waking, and I just look at her. I don’t think I’ve ever looked at anyone the way I’m looking at her now.

My heart is doing something unfamiliar against my ribs, hitting harder than it should, and every sensible instinct I’ve trusted my entire life is telling me to stand up, take a step back, give her space before either of us has to figure out what the fuck just happened.

But I don’t move.

Then I watch her wake up.

Really wake up.

Confusion flickers across her face first, followed almost immediately by recognition, and I see the exact second the memory catches up with her.

Her eyes widen.

Every muscle in her body goes still.

“Shit!” she whispers.

I don’t think she’s talking to me. I think she’s talking to herself.

We’re close enough that I can feel the warmth of her breath against my face, close enough that if either of us leaned forward, the distance between us would disappear altogether.

Neither of us does.

I should say something. Anything. Instead, I keep looking at her. At the uncertainty in her eyes. At the apology beginning to form before she’s even decided whether she needs one. At the woman who somehow became the first person I look for every time I walk into a room.

The one who lingers in my head long after she’s gone, until somewhere along the way thinking about Sage stopped being something I did and quietly became the place my mind always returned to.

The decision isn’t dramatic. It slips past every instinct I’ve spent years trusting, quiet enough that I don’t realize I’ve made it until I’m already moving.

My hand lifts, settling against her jaw. Her skin is warm beneath my palm, impossibly soft beneath fingers that have spent more years wrapped around handlebars, keyboards, and weapons than they ever have around another person. My thumb brushes her cheek in a touch so gentle it catches me off guard.

She doesn’t pull away.

She simply looks at me.

Waiting.

Giving me every chance to stop.

I don’t.