I lift my hands to his face and hold him there, make him look at me. “It’s real.”
His shoulders fall, softer than moments ago.
Decker kisses me again, and there’s nothing careful left in it. His hands move with purpose—down my back, over my hips, pulling me into him until I feel exactly how much he wants me. My head tips back against the wall, a breath leaving me when his mouth drags down my throat.
“Decker.” His name sounds wrecked coming from my mouth, and he answers it immediately, his hands tightening.
“I’ve got you.” The words are low and hot against my skin. “I’ve got you.”
I believe him.
That might be the most dangerous part, putting myself one hundred percent into us. But I’m doing it.
My fingers go to his shirt, suddenly impatient. I don’t want layers. I don’t want barriers. I want skin on skin and all the years between us burned down to nothing. I start at the buttons, but he catches my hand gently, planting the sweetest kiss inside my wrists.
“Upstairs.” The word is barely more than a breath off his lips but sounds like a command.
He takes my hand and leads me up the stairs, and even that feels intimate somehow—my bare feet against the floor, his hand snug in mine, both of us knowing this has gone beyond teasing, beyond flirting, beyond all the almosts of the past. This is finally happening.
When we reach the bedroom, he turns back to me, and for a beat, he only stares.
“You’re very quiet,” I say, though I’m no steadier than he is.
“I’m trying not to lose my mind.”
I laugh softly, but it breaks when he steps in close again.
His fingers skim my collarbone, grazing over to my shoulder. “I waited three years to have you again. I don’t want to rush through a single second of tonight.”
The tenderness in his voice almost undoes me more than the hunger.
Then his mouth is back on mine, and the patience he was trying so hard to keep starts slipping. His hands roam more urgently, the kiss turning deeper, hungrier. He pushes me backward until the backs of my knees hit the bed.
He stops only long enough to search my face. “Still good?”
I slide my hands into his hair, pulling him down. “You don’t even have to ask.”
His eyes close for half a second as though he’s been waiting a lifetime for me to say that. But his restraint only lasts so long, breaking quickly.
He kisses me as if he wants to make up for lost time, and I gladly let him. His mouth is hot and demanding, and his hands are everywhere now—my waist, my thigh, my back—touching me as if I might disappear. A ragged breath tears out of me when he lowers me onto the bed and follows, braced over me, his mouth trailing down my throat again.
“Do you know,” he says, voice rough, “how many times I’ve thought about this?” His hand slides along my side, dragging another shiver out of me. “How many nights I’ve laid awake imagining what it would be like to have you under me again?”
My pulse kicks harder than a bass drum.
“You have too many clothes on.” I push at his suit jacket, and this time, he allows me to undress him.
He doesn’t rush to help the way most men might. Doesn’t try to take control. We get off the bed, and he stands there, tall and solid in front of me, watching and waiting to see what I’ll do next.
I slide the jacket off his shoulders. The heavy fabric slips down his arms and drops to the floor.
“You’re very patient all of a sudden,” I murmur.
His mouth curves faintly. “You seem determined.”
“That’s because I want to see you.”
“I get it. Believe me, I fucking get it.” His hungry eyes take me in one more time, and he nestles his hand along my hip.
