Her smile softened. “They’re asleep or on their way.”
“Mm.” His hand rested on the couch cushion near hers, close but not touching. “That’s not the reassuring detail you think it is.”
The air between them thickened, charged. She could feel the warmth radiating from him. Feel the way he was holding himself back. She had no plan to abstain. His admitting that he loved her had made her want him desperately. She wanted the words again while he took her body.
“You’re thinking too much.”
“And you,” he said quietly, “aren’t thinking enough. We can surely wait until we’re back in Dublin.”
But his hand moved.
Slowly.
His fingers brushed hers—just barely. A question. A warning.
She didn’t pull away.
Instead, she slid her hand over his, lacing their fingers together. “You know, I’m not good with waiting,” she whispered.
The shift in him was immediate.
Jonathan’s jaw tightened, amber eyes darkening as he leaned closer. His free hand came up, brushing a loose wave of brown hair away from her face. His knuckles skimmed her cheek, then lingered.
“You’re going to get me in trouble,” he said softly.
Mags’ lips curved. “With who?”
“We might have satisfied your parents’ questions tonight, but that doesn’t mean they’d appreciate us christening their couch.” His jaw tightened when she slid her hand high on his thigh. “Mags,” he groaned, “you’re making this hard.”
She brushed her fingertips against his quickly swelling sex. “I can tell.”
“Let’s at least go to your room. Babe,” he gritted as her palm fitted flush against his fly.
And then he kissed her.
It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t careless. It was slow and deliberate—Jonathan’s mouth warm against hers, testing, deepening when she sighed into him. Mags’ fingers tightened in his shirt, pulling him closer. The kiss turned hungry in seconds, restraint unraveling thread by thread.
His hand slid to her waist, thumb grazing the curve of her hip beneath her shirt. She gasped softly, and both of them froze.
Silence.
They listened.
Nothing but the hum of the refrigerator and the distant ticking of the hallway clock.
Jonathan exhaled against her lips. “Still time to stop.”
“Do you want to?” she asked.
His answer was another kiss—deeper now, his hand slipping beneath the hem of her shirt, palm warm against bare skin. Her breath hitched as his fingers traced upward along her spine.
She shifted onto his lap without breaking the kiss, straddling him carefully. The couch dipped beneath their combined weight, springs creaking faintly.
They both stilled again.
Jonathan pressed his forehead to hers, fighting a grin. “That’s not subtle.”
“You’re the one who said stop thinking.”
