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“And I’m a terrible liar.” Her voice drops. “I missed you, too. Your voice. The way you hum in the kitchen when you think no one’s listening. The way you always make sure Ella’s blanket is tucked in just right.” She looks down at her wine glass, then sets it on the coffee table.

I reach out and brush my knuckles along the curve of her jaw. Slow. Barely a touch. She leans into it, her eyes falling closed for a second, and when they open again they’re darker somehow—almost deep navy.

“Come here,” I murmur.

She doesn’t hesitate. She shifts toward me on the couch, and I slide my hand to the back of her neck, fingers in her hair, and tilt her face up.

The first kiss is slow. Deliberate. Her lips part against mine, soft and warm and tasting like white wine, heat rolls down my spine in a wave so strong I feel it in my groin.

I pull back. Look at her. Make sure.

She blinks at me—eyes hazy, lips barely apart—and then she grabs the front of my shirt and pulls me back in.

The second kiss is different. Deeper. Her tongue brushes mine and I groan, can’t help it, the sound rumbling up from my chest, and I feel her smile against my mouth. One kiss bleeds into the next, and the next, and I lose track of where one ends and another begins because her fingers are in my hair and she tastes incredible and I’ve been thinking about this since the night I met her.

My hands find her waist. Her hips. She shifts, and then she’s in my lap—knees on either side of my thighs, her body pressed against mine, and when she settles, we both go still for a beat.

“Hi,” she whispers, lips swollen, eyes bright.

“Hi.”

She puts both palms flat against my chest, and I feel them through the cotton of my shirt—warm, steady. Her fingers slide up to my shoulders, my neck, the base of my skull, and she kisses me again. Slower this time. Rolling. Her hips shift against me and a groan pulls from my throat.

“You’re trying to kill me,” I tell her.

“Maybe.” She grins against my mouth. “Is it working?”

I answer by tugging the hem of her shirt up. She lifts her arms and lets me pull it off, and when I drop it on the floor and look at her, my breath leaves me.

She’s beautiful. Beautiful in the way that makes your hands shake—real, warm, close enough to touch, and actually wanting to be here.

“You’re staring,” she says softly, a flush spreading across her chest.

“Yeah, I am.”

I lean forward and press my lips to her collarbone. The curve of her throat. The soft skin below her ear, where her pulse is hammering. She exhales, shaky, her fingers threading through my hair, and when my mouth traces lower, she arches against me with a sound I want to hear on repeat.

I take my time. Her breathing changes—gets ragged, gets caught—and she’s moving in my lap now, this slow, unconscious rhythm, and I’m holding on by a thread.

“Baby,” I say against her throat. “Tell me what you want. I don’t want to push—”

“More,” she says. “I want more.”

I stand, lifting her with me. She gasps—a surprised, delighted sound—and wraps her legs around my waist, arms around my neck. I carry her down the hall, and she’s kissing my jaw, my ear, the side of my neck, and I almost walk into the doorframe because I can’t think straight.

I lay her on my bed, and for a second I just look at her—hair fanned across my pillows, eyes dark, cheeks flushed, watching me with an expression that’s half want and half disbelief, like she can’t quite believe this is happening.

“Wait,” she says, just as I’m settling beside her.

My heart stops. “What is it?”

Her nose scrunches—the worried version. “You didn’t, um . . . while you were away. You didn’t—”

“No.” I smooth my thumb over the furrow between her brows. “I haven’t been with anyone in months, Ryleigh.”

Her face relaxes into a slow smile. “Good.”

“What about you?” I tease, trailing my fingers down her arm. “Any secret visitors while I was gone?”