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I kiss him again before he can see how badly those words affect me.

But Mitchell knows.

And when his arms close around me again, he doesn't hold me like he's won something back. He holds me like he knows exactly how close he came to losing it.

My hands tangle in his dark hair as we deepen the kiss.

Christ, I've missed this.

Him.

The taste of him. The feel of him. The way my body knows his before my brain can catch up.

He's hot and hard beneath me, and sick or not, I'm still a woman.

And he's still the man I love.

That thought sends another rush of heat through me.

His lips leave mine, trailing plucking kisses along my jaw and down my neck. I tip my head back, giving him better access, and his mouth moves lower.

“Mitchell.”

He pulls my shirt over my head, and cool air brushes my heated skin for only a second before his hands replace it.

He cups my breasts, lavishing attention on them until I'm squirming on his lap.

I moan and clutch his shoulders.

I need more.

Need closer.

Need him.

My fingers go to the buttons of his shirt, fumbling with the first one because apparently being sick and turned on isn't conducive to fine motor skills.

“Dammit.”

Mitchell chuckles against my skin.

“Don't laugh at me.”

“I wouldn't dare.”

“Liar.”

“Frequently.”

I finally get the damn buttons open and shove his shirt aside, running my palms over the hard planes of his chest.

Warm skin.

Solid muscle.

Mitchell.

Mine.