Page 112 of What Remains

“And you love it,” I tease back.

His mouth finds mine again before I can catch my breath, and the low sound he makes in his throat nearly undoes me.

For a split second, I think he’s finally going to forget all his patience. Take me into the back hall and have his way with me. We both need it.

But this man.

This incredible man . . .

Just can’t help but respect me. (That’s good, I know, but damn do I want him.)

He breaks the kiss. “We’ve waited too long, and you deserve so much more than for me to pin you against the wall and take you like⁠—”

“But that does sound nice.” I groan softly and step back.

His eyes fall to my lips as he steps in.

Well then.

His hands skim to my hips as he curses before claiming my mouth again—rougher now, less restraint, very much I need you.

I slide my arms over his shoulders, linking my wrists at the back of his neck, kissing him back with everything I have.

Take me, take me, take me pours through my mind like liquid heat.

“Gwen,” he grits out, fighting for his control that I want to shatter even if he’s right. And I know he is.

We can’t make love in the coffee shop.

I mean, we can’t, right?

His mouth slowly leaves mine.

“How’d we hold off for so long?” I whisper.

His brows slant inward, but he keeps quiet.

We both know why. Of course we do. It wasn’t our time then. But it is now. God, I hope it is, at least.

“E?” I breathe out.

He brushes the hair away from my face, tucking it behind my ears. “Yeah?”

Talking about something heavy is the only way I’m going to stop myself from pleading with him to say F it and take me now. Not here. But my bedroom? Yeah, that could work.

There’s also my shower to dull the noise of me crying out his name as he makes me come. Beneath the spray of the water, his rigid and hard body pressed tight to my back with my hands over my head, tits smashed to the tiles and⁠—

“If you had to choose just one . . . what’s your greatest fear when it comes to there being an us?” I rudely interrupt my fantasies before I lose control.

“Truth?”

“Ideally.” I smile.

The lines around his eyes deepen as the humor drains from his face.

“I’d be lying if I said you being Wyatt’s daughter doesn’t trip me up.” He shakes his head, gulping. “But don’t worry, I can handle him,” he promises, his voice low.

I don’t know why the way he says that hits me right in the chest and low in the stomach in the best possible way, but it does. “Good.”