“Now,” she said, pulling him back down to her, “we stop pretending.”
When they finally broke apart, breathless, he rested his forehead against hers again. “Well,” he murmured, a shaky laugh escaping him. “That was definitely a worse idea than I imagined.”
Nicole’s breath hitched. The book slid from her lap and thudded to the floor, but neither of them moved to pick it up.
Nicole laughed too, the sound wet and relieved. “The worst.”
Tonight, the air was thick with it.
That was all the permission he needed. When he kissed her, it wasn’t the gentle, tentative first kiss of a new couple. It was the collision of three years of unspoken words, of side-long glances and accidental touches that lingered a second too long. It was hungry and desperate and achingly tender all at once. His hands cupped her face, and her fingers fisted in the soft cotton of his henley, pulling him closer as the rain hammered against the glass, a deafening applause for a story that was only just beginning.
“Yes, you do.” He stood up, the careful distance between them collapsing as he crossed the room in three easy strides. He didn’t sit beside her. Instead, he knelt in front of the window seat, his knees on the floor, so they were eye to eye. “You look at me like you’re afraid of me. And I don’t think it’s fear, Nic.”
“Tell me to stop,” he said, his face inches from hers. His hand came up, trembling slightly, and his fingertips brushed a strand of damp hair from her cheek. “Tell me you don’t feel it, and I’ll walk away. We’ll go back to polite. We’ll pretend.”