Page 100 of Ballrooms & Blackmail

Only this time I don’t stop.

Not because I’m trying to convince her to forget about my past.

Not because I think a kiss fixes anything between us.

But because I’ve spent three weeks pretending I can survive without touching her.

And now I’m finally admitting I can’t.

She makes a small sound against my lips, and for one terrible second, I think she’s going to push me away.

Instead, her hands fist in the front of my shirt.

And…she kisses me back.

It’s hard and hot, tinged with anger and heartbreak and pain. But beneath that all is…need. Because she’s missed me too. Because she loves me too.

Because she’s River—and she won’t turn away from me.

Relief crashes through me so violently it almost hurts, and I groan, holding her tighter, kissing her deeper, my hand pressing into the small of my back, those gorgeous curves of hers against me, her lips and tongue tangling with mine.

Until she pushes at my chest, abruptly pulls away.

She’s flushed, her lungs working, her eyes bright, so damned beautiful it takes my breath away.

And furious.

She glares at me. “This changes nothing.”

“I know.”

“You can’t kiss me every time things get hard.”

“I know,” I say softly.

“I need you to trust me with all the parts of you,” she says. “Because I can’t be in another relationship where I’m not an equal, where I’m shoved into a box, relegated to the surface parts you’re willing to share. I need more. I need everything.” Her throat works. “Not today. Not right now. But, honey”—she exhales—“we can’t be an us if you’ve got one hand up keeping me at a distance.”

I close my eyes, rasp out, “I know.”

But still I can’t make the fucking words come, and the silence that settles between us is stifling, sitting heavy on my lungs as I just. Fucking. Stare. At. Her.

She steps back and fuck that hurts.

“I’m here,” she whispers. “When you’re ready…” A soft sigh. “Just…when you’re ready.” She turns, starts walking toward the house.

Walking away from me.

I should let her go—the terror that has my insides in knots is screaming at me to do exactly that.

Instead—just as she reaches for the door handle—I say what I should’ve said weeks ago, “You’re right.”

She stops and slowly turns to face me.

I force myself to hold her gaze, even as the shame eats at me.

“I’m right about what?”

“All of it.”