Page 103 of Bitter’s Sweet

“You always act like you’re waiting for permission.”

“I am.”

The answer lands low in my stomach.

I should say something smart. Something funny. Something light enough to make the room safe again.

Instead, I reach across the table and touch his wrist. His skin is warm. His pulse is steady beneath my fingertips. He looks down at my hand like it is a dangerous object.

“Permission,” I whisper.

His gaze lifts.

The air changes.

This time neither of us pretends not to feel it.

Bitter stands slowly, his chair scraping behind him. I rise too, though I don’t remember deciding to. The table remains between us for one breath, then another. He could stay there. I could stay here.

We could both be smart.

He comes around the table.

I do not move away.

His hand lifts toward my face, stopping just short of my cheek.

Asking without words.

I lean into his palm.

His entire expression changes like I handed him something fragile and he has no idea how to hold it.

Then he kisses me.

Not like last night.

Last night was fire catching before either of us could stomp it out. This is slower. Deeper. Worse. This is his hand at my jaw, his thumb brushing once near my ear, his mouth taking mine like he has been thinking about it all day and hates that I can tell.

I can tell.

I have been thinking about it too.

I slide my hands up his chest. He makes a rough sound and pulls me closer, one arm around my waist while the other hand cups the back of my neck. Not tight. Never tight. Just there.

I don’t want to pull away.

His mouth leaves mine and drags along my jaw.

“Tell me now if this is stopping.”

A shiver runs through me. “Bossy.”

“Sweet.”

My name in his mouth sounds like warning and prayer.

I close my eyes. “I don’t want to stop.”