Page 205 of The Clinch
“You should’ve told me.”
“I know.”
“I might yell at you about that for the next fifty years.”
That gets a real smile out of him. “Okay.”
I have to swallow around it before I can move.
I take one step toward him.
Then another.
“I’m not here because I owe you.”
His attention flicks to my mouth and back so fast it would be almost invisible on another man.
“I know.”
“I’m not here because you fought him.”
His voice roughens at the edges. “Okay.”
I stop right in front of him now, close enough to feel the heat of his body, the scent of soap and coffee and skin.
“I’m here because this is my choice.”
Something in his face opens. Not relief exactly. It looks more like something he’s been holding shut with both hands finally gives way.
I lift my hand and lay it flat against the center of his chest. His heart is pounding.
Good.
Mine too.
“I’m still scared,” I whisper.
His hand flexes once at his side, but he doesn’t touch me. He makes me be the one to close the last inch.
I slide my fingers into the fabric of his shirt and give the smallest tug. His hand comes up slowly and settles against the side of my neck with a care so precise it hurts.
I lean into it.
His eyes close briefly.
Then I kiss him.
The first contact is softer than I expect and harder than I’m ready for. Warm mouth. Rough breath. The shock of him, so familiar and so far away all at once. My whole body gives one helpless shudder, and he catches it instantly, his hand at my neck sliding to my jaw, the other coming around my waist with enough strength to hold me and enough restraint to make it clear he’s still waiting for more.
I step closer until there’s no room left between us and kiss him again, deeper this time, and the sound he makes against my mouth is low and wrecked enough to nearly take my knees out from under me.
He turns us carefully and backs me against the edge of the counter. His lips come back to mine, slower this time but no less hungry.
He kisses me like he has been starving and refusing to eat.
I grip his shirt harder.
The hand at my waist slides up my spine. The one at my jaw drifts into my hair. Every touch is careful, reverent, and utterly at odds with the violence I know he’s capable of.
