I think he’s as terrified as I am right now.
I’m leaning all my weight into him, because I’ve never been this weak. I can’t think, I can’t move, I can’t breathe. I just . . . need.
He brings both hands to my cheeks and looks directly into my eyes.
“Your call,” he whispers.
Jesus Christ, that voice.
I stare at him, not sure if I like that he just put the control in my hands. He wants this to be my decision.
It’s so much easier having someone else to blame when things go where they shouldn’t. I know we shouldn’t be putting ourselves into a situation we’re only going to regret once it’s over. I could put a stop to it right here. I could make it easier by asking him to leave now, rather than when things get even more complicated between us. I could slide off his lap and tell him he shouldn’t be here because he hasn’t even had time to forgive himself for what happened with Maggie. I could tell him to go away and not come back until his heart isn’t confused anymore about who it wants.
If that day ever comes.
There are so many things I could and should and need to do, but none of them is what I want to do.
The pressure picks the worst possible time to break me. The worst possible time.
I squeeze my eyes shut when I feel a tear begin to work its way out. It trickles down my cheek, falling slowly toward my jaw. It’s the absolutely slowest descent a tear has ever made. I open my eyes, and Ridge is watching it. He’s following the wet trail with his eyes, and I can see his jaw growing more tense with every second that passes. I want to reach up and wipe it away, but the last thing I want to do is hide it from him. My tears say a whole lot more about how I’m feeling right now than I’m willing to say in a text.
Maybe I need him to know that this is hurting me.
Maybe I want it to hurt him, too.
When the tear finally curves and disappears under my jaw, he brings his eyes back to mine. I’m surprised by what I see in them.
His own tears.
Knowing that he’s hurting because I’m hurting shouldn’t make me want to kiss him, but it absolutely does. He’s here because he cares about me. He’s here because he misses me. He’s here because he needs to feel what we felt in our first kiss again, just as I do. I’ve wanted that feeling back since the second his mouth left mine and he walked away.
I remove my hands from his shoulders and grab the back of his head, then lean into him, bringing my mouth so close to his that our lips brush.
He grins. “Good call,” he whispers.
He closes the space between our mouths, and everything else falls away. The guilt, the worries, the concern over what happens after this kiss ends. It all melts away the second his mouth claims mine. He gently coaxes my lips apart with his tongue, and all the chaos running through my heart and head is eliminated when I feel his warmth inside my mouth.
Kisses like his should come with a warning label. They can’t be good for the heart. He runs a hand around to my upper thigh, then slips it beneath the hem of my T-shirt. His hand glides across my back, and he grips me tightly, then lifts his hips at the same time as he pulls me harder against him.
Oh.
My.
Goodness.
I become weaker and weaker with every rhythmic movement he creates with our bodies. I find whatever parts of him I can hold on to, because I feel as if I’m falling. I grab his shirt and his hair while I moan softly into his mouth. When he feels the sound escape my throat, he quickly pulls away from my mouth and squeezes his eyes shut, breathing heavily. When he opens his eyes again, he’s staring at my throat.
He pulls his hand from beneath my shirt, then slowly brings it up to my neck.