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The second his lips meet mine, every particle of my body instantly warms, and I sink into the kiss. We move slowly against each other, like we have all the time in the world. His hands drop to my waist, my hip, allowing my fingers to roam up his body and twist through his hair. A low groan escapes from the back of his throat when I tug ever so slightly, heat pooling at my center at just the sound of him. He breaks away from the kiss, pulling my hips as close to his as possible. His eyes are hazy as he gazes at me.

It’s the look he’s always given me. The one that appeared when I did something silly or dumb. This whole time, it’s been something else entirely. The look I mistook for judgment is Henry tempering his desire. I can see it now, millimeters from his face. This whole damn time.

I pull him back down to meet my lips, kissing him more deeply. Henry’s hands grip my waist firmly, and the next thing I know, I’m sitting on the kitchen island, the marble cold through my leggings. How he does this with our mouths still fused together, while also managing to avoid knocking over the mugs of hot, untouched chamomile tea, is beyond me.

Seated on the island, my eyes and chest are level with his. He gently pushes my knees open and steps between them. I let out a choppy breath, feeling how hard he already is through his perfectly pleated blue slacks. His mouth roams around the curve of my neck, the hollow of my throat. His teeth scrape my ear. I wrap my legs around his waist, needing him closer. My hips roll against him and he stops abruptly, sucking in a harsh breath through his teeth. Henry straightens, and I let my legs fall back, dangling in the air.

Henry’s head dips down, his forehead resting on my sternum. His palms skim my thighs, up and down, slick along the spandex of my leggings. I breathe him in, all sandalwood and nerves, and place a featherlight kiss on his temple. Henry raises his head, his eyes filled with want, disbelief, tenderness. My heart somersaults in my chest, and I feel my breath stop.

Henry’s hands move from my thighs to my back, drawing tightly around me. He buries his face in my neck, gently pressing a kiss into my pulse point before resting his head there. His hands circle lightly up and down my spine as I wrap my arms around his shoulders. Our movements slow until all that’s left is the rise and fall of our chests in this embrace that somehow feels more intimate than any kiss.

I have hugged Henry Cole hundreds of times in my life. Every hello and goodbye, every happy or sad feeling, from ages three to seventeen. But this is the first time in nine years. Even back at the B&B, in all the ways we touched each other there, we never hugged.

There is nothing casual or temporary about the way he’s holding me. The heaviness of it all is cement in my lungs, and when he pulls back, I feel drunk under his gaze.

“I love you,” he says in a whisper, just for me, even though we’re the only ones here. “You don’t have to say it back.”

I wasn’t sure if he realized before, if he knew that I hadn’t used that word. Even though he feels so sincere, heat rises to my cheeks at being too seen, too understood.

I’ve been in love with you my whole life, my heart screams, but when the words rise in my throat, I feel them crumble up and disappear before they can reach my tongue.

Henry’s fingers lightly brush against my jaw, tracing the shape like it deserves to be studied by scholars. “I’m scared too, Norah. It’s okay. We can be scared together.”

“I do,” I say, so quietly that he leans in even closer to me, to feel my words on his lips. Love you, my heart completes, even if I can’t force the sounds. “Always have. Even when I hated you.”

Henry cradles the back of my head and pulls me into another kiss I feel with my whole body. I open my mouth to him, needing more of him, all of him. My hand runs along his chest, down, down, until I hover above his belt, feeling the heat of him just a few inches below.

“Is this okay?” I ask, and feel him smile into my lips.

“You don’t have to,” he tells me, his words in conflict with the way his hips roll toward my palm, an almost involuntary response. It sends a shiver down my spine, watching this put-together man start to unravel at my touch.

“I know,” I say. “I’ll stop if you want me to.”

His hands press firmly into the sides of my hips, thumbs circling at the crease of my thighs. “Give me your phone,” he says, his voice breathy, unsteady.

“What?”

“Put it on silent, lock it up, throw it away, I don’t care. I’m not letting anything interrupt this again.” Henry places his phone on the kitchen island.

“And what do you think is going to happen here?” I ask, arching an eyebrow playfully. He looks down at my hand against the fabric of his slacks.

“As much or as little as you want, Norah. I’d be content just standing here kissing you all night.”

The hungry look between us says we both know so much more is bound to happen.

I pull out my phone and place it next to his on the kitchen island, where we used to make Popsicle-stick houses and decorate cookies when we were snowed in and school was canceled. Where we did our math homework in middle school.

Where I’m sitting with an intoxicatingly hard and frustratingly clothed Henry Cole standing between my legs.

“I want you,” I say, pressing against him in a way that makes both of us groan. “All of you. As much as you’ll give me.”

He lets out a sigh, and it sounds like relief.

“Take me upstairs, Henry.”

He puts out his hand to help me hop down from the island. My legs barely work, and he has to grasp my hips to steady me.

“That is not how I’m bringing you to your knees,” I think I hear him say, and my eyes go wide.