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His hand rises like he needs to feel me, but he stops himself. “I won’t try to kiss you again, but goddammit, Norah, you have no idea, do you?” It’s so quiet, I don’t even know if he meant for me to hear. His light eyes are almost stormy, pleading for permission to be closer.

I feel in the pit of my stomach like I’ve misjudged every moment since Henry reentered my orbit. Like if I don’t kiss him now, we’ll never have this time back. We’ll never know.

I lean up on my tiptoes, tilt my chin toward him, and gently brush my lips against his, a featherlight prelude. I feel his entire body come alive with that brief contact. He catches me as I start to lower on my toes, a firm hand on my hip, anchoring me close to him. His other hand is in my wild morning hair, twisting through as his mouth crashes hungrily into mine, biting my lower lip in a way that makes heat pool low in my stomach. I’m gripping his shirt with both my fists, trying to draw him closer, or yank the stupid cotton right off his body, I’m not sure.

Henry pulls away so abruptly that I let out an involuntary whimper, and I can feel a muscle in his jaw flex at the sound. He presses his forehead to mine, both of us gasping for air. I can’t tell what he’s thinking, but I’m desperate for his mouth to be back on mine.

“Henry,” I start, pulling away to try to get a look at him, to see if I can read what he’s thinking on his face, but he draws me back close to him.

“I just need a moment to convince myself this is really happening,” he says, his voice unsteady.

Before I can respond, his hands are on my face, cupping my cheeks. He’s gazing at me like I’m something precious. Delicate. Perfect.

This time, when he kisses me, it’s slow, purposeful. As if his tongue is trying to map my mouth, as if he needs to commit every tiny movement to memory.

The first kiss was all hunger, need.

This kiss is intentional. Inevitable.

I wrap my arms around his neck, and he pulls me flush against him.

We stand there, intertwined, for what feels like a decade of lost time. Tongue on throat, fingers in hair, every grunt, every gasp electric, until I desperately need to be closer. To feel more of him.

I lift his shirt over his head, exposing his chest. I saw him shirtless yesterday, but that was a million feelings ago. My sigh is shaky as I take in the sight of him. There’s something intoxicating about seeing this gangly, awkward boy, who I loved before I even knew what that word meant or how it could hurt, as a man in his truest form. He has no right to be this beautiful.

He fumbles with the hem of the sweatshirt I slept in, lifting it slowly to expose my stomach, higher, higher.

“Fuck, Norah,” he says, revealing my bare breasts, peaks already at perfect attention for him.

“You can’t sleep in underwire,” I explain as his eyes feast on my chest. He raises two fingers and rolls my nipple between them.

A hiss escapes from somewhere deep inside me and he snaps to reality with a look of worry. “Too much? Did I hurt you?” he asks.

I lift my gaze to meet his. For the briefest moment, the concern on his face cracks my whole chest open. Suddenly, this isn’t enough. I need to feel the weight of him on me. I shake my head slowly, lips pulling into a devilish grin, and I watch his pupils dilate with knowledge of the true meaning of that hiss.

I give his chest a gentle push and, catching on, he grabs me and pulls me down onto the bed on top of him. He lies back, my knees folded on either side of his hips. He shifts, and I become increasingly aware of how hard he is through these drawstring pants that leave little to the imagination. We are aligned dangerously. I tilt my hips down slightly, and the delicious friction is almost too much.

We are in over our heads.

We are done for.

He groans and pulls my torso back down to meet his, the bare skin of our chests growing sticky with heat. He runs his tongue along the underside of my jaw and I wonder where else he might be skilled with that muscle.

I kiss him, hard, and we roll over. I let out a sigh at the glorious feeling of his weight on me. His hips grind into mine, and I match the rhythm, as close as we can get with our lower halves still clothed. Breathless.

Henry steadies, propping himself up on his forearms over me.

“Norah,” he says, my name on his tongue like a prayer. “Can I touch you?” Henry burrows his head into my neck, kissing my pulse point softly. “I need to feel you. Please.”

His simple please unravels me. It’s all I can say back to him. “Please.” Heady, breathy please.

Henry’s teeth scrape my bottom lip, biting down with the perfect amount of pressure as he shifts us onto our sides, his hand gliding between us. My pajama pants are thin enough that when his finger lightly grazes the place I need him most, my whole body hums.

I feel the knowing smile spread across his face, his mouth still pressed against my own.

He knows that I’m drenched for him.

“Please.” I’ve been reduced to that one word, one syllable, my whole brain clouded by years of want, and the fact that Henry Cole is slipping his hand into my panties, which have been rendered useless since I first felt his hot breath on my neck.