Rewind It Back (Windy City, #5)(63)

He chuckles under his breath before he takes slow, hesitant steps up the stairs and across the porch to meet me at the door. Leaning one shoulder on the doorframe, he nods towards the unturned key.

“You should go inside, Hallie.”

It’s almost testing in the way he says it with his voice all gruff, paired with a slight flex of his jaw. His hands are once again tucked in his pockets, like a physical manifestation of the restraint he’s trying to possess.

I look down to the lock then up to him, and it feels like a representation of my own internal battle. I could go inside to keep things friendly and professional because I’m not fully over him leaving all those years ago when I needed him most. Not to mention, he doesn’t know the whole story. Or I could lean up and press my mouth against his because he’s the only person I’ve ever loved and he’s standing in front of me all these years later.

The classic battle of the head versus the heart.

Today, the non-logical heart wins when I wrap a fist around the front of his shirt to pull him down, at the same time lifting to my toes, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. It’s a bit unpolished and almost a miss, my lips barely brushing against his.

Reminiscent of our very first kiss, I suppose. Just enough to tell him that I want this.

Pulling back, I catch his eyes and they’re dark and hungry and hooded.

His attention moves back to my mouth, once again asking the question, “You single, Hal?”

I finally give him the long-awaited answer, nodding to tell him yes.

“Good.” He takes a slow predatorial step towards me, tone sharp and leaving no room for question. “Because we aren’t fucking friends.”

With that declaration, he grips the side of my neck and slams his mouth onto mine.

Startling, the only sensation is warmth. Warmth from his mouth on mine. Warmth from the overwhelming presence of his body and the desperation in which he’s kissing me. Because it is desperate. It’s needy and it’s wanting. It feels like there are six years of wanting wrapped into this kiss.

He gives me a moment to catch on to what’s happening, for me to part my lips and ask for more. And when I do, when I give in to him, it becomes all-consuming, every one of my senses ramping up to ten.

He smells incredible. He smells like him.

He tastes delicious. Just as I remember.

He feels strong and in control, with firm but measured pressure on my throat.

I can’t see him with my eyes closed, but I can imagine how fucking good he looks, towering over me and taking what he wants.

And as far as he sounds . . . God, the pleading noises coming from this man’s throat right now alone could cause me to come undone.

Rio’s other hand finally slips free from his pocket, and all that restraint to keep from touching me flies out the window. Both hands palm the sides of my face, pushing me flush against the front door. He moves me where he wants me, taking over and slipping his tongue past my parted lips.

The pads of his fingers grip my hair, his big thigh slips between my own, pressing us closer.

An unpermitted moan crawls up my throat as his tongue slides against mine, as I rock my seeking hips against him.

His responding groan vibrates against my body and God, it just feels right. No awkwardness, no figuring it out tentatively, because I’ve been kissing this boy since I was sixteen. We were the ones who taught each other how to do it. It’s second nature at this point.

His mouth is warm and soft yet unyielding. Firm in the way he knows what he wants. A little messy. A little untethered. A little unhinged. And there’s a whole lot of eagerness from both our sides.

I circle his forearms, tracing the hills and valleys of muscle there, following the lines of veins bulging under the skin.

Slowly pulling away from my mouth, he rests his forehead against mine.

“Fuck,” he breathes out against my lips. “I missed this, Hal.”

He opens his eyes to watch as I run my hands up his ribs, right against his racing heart and chest, feeling every shallow yet hard-earned breath.

“Please don’t stop,” he says, but it almost comes out as a whimper. “Fuck, I missed the way you touch me.”

I take my time touching him, feeling him, really exploring him for the first time since he’s grown into this new body. My fingertips toy with the fabric of his shirt, pressing it flush against the skin by his chest and ribs. The white material is so thin, I can almost make out the black ink below it.

Too soon, Rio circles my forearms, moving my hands to run up his chest and neck, for my fingers to slide into the waves that are flipped out under the nape of his beanie. He closes his eyes again when, of my own accord, I move my hands to bracket his face and pull his mouth back down to meet my own.

He hums this satisfying sound and God if that’s not the hottest thing I’ve heard.

Rio’s hands move, one gliding around my neck, fully surrounding it, his thumb stroking the pulse point there. The other slides between me and the door, his palm cradling my ass as he pulls me into him.

In all the times we’ve kissed before, he’s never kissed me like this. Like it’s the first time he’s come up for air in years. It’s frantic. It’s full of longing. But he has no idea how much I’ve longed for this. How I spent most of the past six years wanting exactly this.

Wanting him.

Wanting him to change his mind and find me so I could explain everything and hope to make him understand. Hope to make him forgive me. Hope that he’d want us again.