I didn’t answer him.
Not with words.
Instead, I rose up on my toes, curled my fingers into his shirt, and pulled him down into another kiss.
This one wasn’t soft.
It wasn’t careful or uncertain or held back by ghosts.
It was fire.
It was our long silence breaking open, of grief and lust and longing spilling into every breath. I kissed him like I wanted to burn it all down—every wall, every boundary, every stupid reason we hadn’t gotten here sooner.
He groaned, deep and guttural, the sound vibrating against my lips as he backed me up until the back of my knees hit the edge of the bed. We fell onto it together, tangled in breath and heat and urgency. But even in the madness, he was careful—his hands on my face, his mouth moving slower than I expected.
It wasn't like the other times.
He wasn't trying to erase something or prove anything.
He was trying to feel me.
"Make love to me," I whispered against his mouth, barely recognizing my own voice. "Now. Please."
His eyes met min
