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“By years.”

Tears spill over before I can stop them.

Ryan kisses beneath one eye and then the other. He remains inside me, his arms tight around my body as though releasing me would return the miles.

“We didn’t make it to the bed,” I whisper.

“That was never a realistic goal.”

“I thought Victorian-literature men possessed restraint.”

“They wore fourteen layers of clothing and died from untreated infections. Stop romanticizing them.”

My laugh shakes both of us.

Ryan’s mouth curves against mine before he kisses me again, slower this time. The hunger remains, but relief has softened its edges.

When he pulls back, his eyes move over my face as though he still cannot believe I exist outside memory and photographs.

“That wasn’t everything,” he says.

My body tightens around him.

Ryan notices.

Arrogance returns slowly to his face. “You still do that.”

“You’re still inside me.”

“And you’re still coming to my bed.”

“That sounded like an order.”

“It is.”

I slide my arms around his neck. “Then carry me.”

Ryan lifts me from the counter without pulling away. My legs lock around his waist as he turns toward the hall.

Behind us, Milwaukee glows through the windows, and the kitchen holds the wreckage of every month we spent wanting this.

Tomorrow can have the explanations, plans, and difficult questions waiting beyond his bedroom. Tonight, there are no envelopes, phone lines, or miles between us.

There is only Ryan carrying me toward his bed while his mouth finds mine again.

38

Ryan

I carry Charm through the dark apartment with her legs locked around my waist and her mouth moving across my neck.

Her body is still wrapped around mine. Every step keeps me buried inside her, and the friction drags a shaking breath from her lips while our release remains warm between us. Her nails scrape lightly across my shoulders as I push open the bedroom door.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

“Keeping a promise.”

“Which one?”