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I set my wineglass on the table.

His eyes follow the movement before returning to mine.

“I’ve been trying very hard to behave myself,” Ross says quietly.

There is no teasing in his voice.

“I noticed,” I reply.

His gaze stays on mine.

“I meant what I said before. You decide what happens here.”

The certainty in his voice makes my stomach tighten. Ross straightens and sets his glass aside.

“If you want to go upstairs alone, say goodnight,” he tells me.

“I’ll walk you to your door, and that will be the end of it tonight.”

He pauses.

“But if you stay here and come any closer to me, I’m done pretending I don’t want my hands on you.”

There is no teasing in the words.

No smile.

My heartbeat picks up.

I know what I should do. I could say goodnight, walk upstairs, close the door to my room and preserve whatever boundary I still think exists between us.

Instead, I shift closer.

Ross doesn’t move until my hand touches his chest. The restraint in his expression changes immediately. His hand comes to my waist, firm but unhurried, and when I lean into him, he meets me halfway.

The kiss begins slowly.

There is none of the anger that drove us together in London, none of the frantic need to win an argument neither of us knew how to finish. His mouth moves over mine with a patience that makes my pulse race faster than urgency ever could.

I slide my fingers into his hair.

Ross draws me closer until I’m pressed against him, and the control he has maintained all evening begins to give way beneath my hands.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against mine.

“You’re sure?” he asks.

“Yes,” I whisper.

Something darkens in his eyes.

The next kiss is nothing like the first.

Ross’s hand tightens at my waist as he pulls me toward him, and whatever careful distance remained between us disappears. The fire burns behind us, the rest of the house is quiet beyond the room, and for once I stop thinking about what this means tomorrow. I only know that I don’t want him to stop.

His mouth leaves mine only long enough for his hands to find the hem of my sweater. He doesn't ask this time. He drags the soft wool up my ribs one slow inch at a time, his knuckles grazing bare skin, until I lift my arms and he pulls it over my head. It lands somewhere behind the sofa. The fire warms my back while Ross stares at me in my bra like he's forgotten how to breathe.

I reach for his shirt.