It almost undoes me.
“Just kiss me once,” I whisper. “While I’m not falling apart.”
His face softens in a way he probably hates.
“You ain’t falling apart.”
“I’m always a little falling apart.”
“Fair.”
The laugh that leaves me is shaky.
Then his hand lifts to my cheek.
Slow enough.
Always slow enough.
His thumb brushes along my jaw, and I lean into it before I can tell myself not to. His eyes search mine. I nod once.
He kisses me.
Not like last night.
Not at first.
This kiss is softer. Daylight instead of storm. His mouth moves over mine with a restraint that feels more intimate than hunger. He tastes like coffee. His beard scrapes lightly against my skin. I grip his shirt, and the sound he makes is barely there, a rough breath that tells me restraint hurts him.
Good.
Not because I want him hurting.
Because I want proof that I’m not the only one fighting this.
I kiss him back.
The softness doesn’t last.
It warms.
Deepens.
Turns heavy.
His hand slides from my cheek to the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair. My body remembers the counter and wants to climb. I press closer. His other hand catches my hip, and he groans into my mouth like I have broken something useful in him.
I like that too much.
The thought should scare me.
It does.
It also makes me kiss him harder.
The pan on the stove smokes.
Derby breaks away first, eyes closing as if he is praying to a God he isn’t on speaking terms with.