He painted sunflowers. Forme.
Reed finally reaches me and stops inches in front of me, close enough that his warmth brushes against my lips.
“Sunshine.”
I attempt to smile as I gaze up at him. “You came.”
“Of course I was going to come,” he says, his fingers twitching at his side, like he wants to reach for me.
Before I can speak again, he leans slightly and gently sets both helmets on the pavement.
His hands rise slowly from his sides, almost hesitant as his palm slides behind my head, his fingers parting through my hair at the nape, gently guiding me as his other hand finds the side of my jaw, his thumb tracing along my cheekbone in a slow stroke that sends a shiver down to my knees.
My breath stutters. “You wrote me back.”
“Of course I did, baby, I missed you,” he mumbles, as his thumb caresses my jaw.
And without warning, he leans his massive frame lower, and he kisses me.
His lips press against mine with warm certainty, as if he’s already memorized exactly how we connect.
The cool night air swirls around us, replaced by the heat radiating from his mouth.
My fingers instinctively find the front of his shirt, gripping the soft, worn cotton and tugging him impossibly closer to me.
His hand gently tightens at the back of my head, guiding my face as his mouth presses to mine, deepening the kiss. His lips softly drag over my lower lip before he gentlynicks it between his teeth; a careful scrape that causes a slight, desperate moan to escape from my throat.
He hears it, hefeelsit, because a low growl hums through his chest and spills into my mouth, with the sound vibrating heat directly between my legs.
His tongue brushes my bottom lip, teasing, coaxing, asking for permission without asking.
I part my lips for him, and the kiss shifts, becoming something driven by hunger, carefully restrained in every slow stroke.
Our breaths intertwine as his thumb glides over the hinge of my jaw, urging me closer, deeper.
The taste of him, a hint of mint and whiskey, washes over me until the world slips away completely.
I tilt my head, following every subtle nudge from his mouth, as his tongue meets mine again.
My knees threaten to give out, so I tighten my grip on his shirt, fingers curling around the hard muscle beneath.
He kisses me as if he’s trying to learn every reaction from me, every shiver, every breathless sound, and keep them for himself.
A car passes somewhere beyond us, but the whole world narrows to the press of his thumb against my jawline and the quiet catch of my breath as his mouth angles just right.
He finally pulls away, his forehead nearly touching mine, his hand staying at the back of my head, as his thumb still traces a warm path along my cheek.
“I needed that the second you walked toward me.”
My pulse struggles. “Me too,” I whisper.
He draws another slow stroke through my hair before letting his hand fall, reluctantly. He crouches to grab thehelmets, lifting the sunflower-painted one into the glow of lamplight.
“This one’s yours,” he says, straightening his posture to his full, impossible height. “It felt wrong for you to wear mine again. So I did something about it.”
I run my fingertips over a sunflower’s petal, the textured brushstroke brushing against my skin. Warmth flows into every part of me, not from adrenaline or nerves, but something softer.
“I love it,” I say, barely a breath. “I love that you made it for me.”
