He kisses me.
It’snot carefulortentative. He kisses me like a manwho’sbeen doing it in his head for nine days and has decided tomake it real.
His hand cradles the back of my head, big enough that his palm is at my nape and his fingers are in my hair.Hismouth is rough and certain and warm.Hetastes faintly of the mint chewing gum I saw on his counter and of last night’s tea and of him, the Sullivan I’vebeen catching glimpses of every time hedidn’tquite smile.
I make a soundin my throat as his tongue glides over mine.His arm, the one across my ribs, slides under me. He lifts me enough to rollussoI’mtucked against him on my side, him on his back,my leg over his thigh,my hand still on his cheek.
He breaks the kiss to breatheand looks atme.
“Tess.” His voice is sandpaper. “Tess, listen.”
“I’m listening.”
“I’m not in good shape.”
“I know.”
He swallows.“Ifyou want to take a step back, this is the moment.”
“Sullivan Mercer.”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve spent nine days throwing baked goods at you.”
“Yeah.”
“I am not taking a step back.”
“Tess.”
“Kiss me,Sullivan. Please kiss me.”
He kisses me.
This time it’s slower. This timehe’schoosing every second of it, the way he chooses every nailina board he wants to save. He kisses along my jaw, the soft place under my ear, the corner of my mouth whereI’msmiling against his mouth.He kisses medeeper, and the room narrows to the rug and the dim coals and his hand at my waist.
“Up,”he says against my lips.“I want you up. Floor’s hard.”
“You first.”
“Tess, I will pick you up.”
“Show me.”
He picks me up, standingwith me in his arms like I weigh nothing—and I donotweighnothing—and carries me across hiscabin to a couch Ihadn’tpaid attention to until now.It’sbrown leather, large and old, soft asa worn boot. Heplaces me gentlyon it and comes down overme,his weight braced on his forearms, his hips heavyagainst mine.
“This,” he rumbles, “is also not the moment.”
“What?”
“This is still a negotiation.”
I laugh. I can’t help it. “You’re negotiating with me?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Sullivan—”
