Choosing.
My voice comes out rough. “You sure?”
“No.”
I freeze.
She looks up at me, honest and shaking. “I’m not sure about anything except that I want to kiss you, and I want to be the one who decides that. Is that enough?”
It should not be.
It is.
Because wanting and deciding are the two things Jeremy tried to take from her.
Because I ain’t that man.
Because if she is brave enough to ask messy, I can be decent enough to answer clean.
“Yes,” I say. “That’s enough.”
She rises on her toes and kisses me.
For one second, I don’t move.
Not because I don’t want it.
Because I want it so damn much I have to make sure I don’t turn into a flood and drown her.
Her mouth presses to mine, soft at first. Careful. Almost questioning.
Then I kiss her back.
And careful goes to hell.
She makes a sound into my mouth, small and shocked, and the leash inside me snaps tight enough to hurt. I grip the counter behind her instead of her body. Wood digs into my palms. My mouth moves over hers, taking the kiss deeper,hotter, but I keep my hands off because if I touch her wrong, too fast, too hungry, I may never forgive myself.
She doesn’t appreciate my restraint.
Her hands slide up my chest, over my shoulders, onto the back of my head, and she pulls.
Christ.
My control nearly dies right there on the kitchen tile.
I groan against her mouth, and she answers with a shaky little gasp that goes straight through me.
I catch her waist.
Just her waist.
Both hands.
She melts forward like she has been waiting for permission from her own body, and now that she has it, she doesn’t know where to put all the wanting.
I do.
Against me.