“I know I don’t have to.” He pulls back enough to look at me, and his eyes are darker than I’ve ever seen them. “That’s the point. I want to.”
“What do you want to say?”
“That I’m done pretending this is just about Post-it notes and breathing exercises.” His hand comes up to cup my face, and I feel the calluses on his palm like brands against my skin. “That every time I leave here, the only thing I can think aboutis coming back. That I show up early because I can’t wait. That I invent excuses to text you. That you’re the first thing I think about when I wake up. That whatever we’re doing isn’t working, because I’m not getting better—I’m just getting more tangled up in you.”
“Bennett—”
“Tell me I’m wrong.” His thumb traces my cheekbone. “Tell me this is one-sided, that I’ve misread everything, and I’ll walk out that door right now.”
I should tell him that. Should maintain the boundaries I built, protect both of us from the inevitable disaster of wanting too much.
But I’m so tired of pretending.
“You’re not wrong,” I whisper.
His expression cracks open. Relief and hunger and fear all tangled together, and then his mouth is on mine, and I stop thinking entirely. This kiss is different from the one in the equipment room.
That was tension snapping, surprise and want colliding without warning. This is intentional. He kisses me like he’s been planning it for days, mapping the shape of my mouth with focused precision.
Control freak, even here. Even now.
I make a sound against his lips—something needy and overwhelming—and feel him smile.
“I’ve been thinking about that,” he says. “The sounds you make. Wondering what else I could pull out of you.”
“Less talking.” I fist his shirt, drag him closer. “More doing.”
He laughs, low and dark, and then he’s walking me backward toward the couch in my back room. My legs hit the cushions, and I sit down hard, looking up at him.
“We should slow down,” he says, even as his hands are reaching for the hem of my sweater. “Talk about this.”
“We’ve done nothing but talk for weeks.” I grab his shirt, pull him down over me. “I’m done talking.”
“Gisele—”
“Bennett.” I meet his eyes. “I want this. I’ve wanted this for longer than I’m willing to admit. If you need to slow down, tell me. But don’t slow down because you think I need protecting.”
The words hit something in him. I watch the last of his hesitation dissolve, replaced by pure hunger.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he says.
“Tell me the same.”
He nods once, and then his mouth is on mine and I stop thinking entirely.
Almost.
Because even now, even with his hands on me and his mouth moving against mine, some part of me is still catching up to the reality of it. This is Bennett. This is actually happening.
My sweater disappears over my head in one smooth motion.
He goes still just for a second—hands on my waist, me in my bra, him still fully dressed—and he just stops. His chest heaves, and his eyes do something I’ve never seen them do before. Something that has nothing to do with want and everything to do withfinally.
“Hey,” I say softly, because the moment needs a word and I don’t have a bigger one.
“Hey.” He sucks in a breath. “I just need a second.”
I know exactly what he means.
