It's not soft.
It's not tender. It's weeks of absence compressed into a single point of contact—my hands fisting in his hair, his arms hauling me closer, his mouth on mine like he's reclaiming something that was always his and he's furious it was ever anywhere else.
I taste salt from my own tears and underneath it him, just him. Unchanged and present and real, and a sound rips out of me against his mouth that is equal parts grief and relief and something that has no category at all.
He swallows it. Kisses me harder. Our tongues expressing everything we can’t put into words.
His hands move—my hair, my face, my waist, like he can't decide where to put them because everywhere is somewhere he's been missing and nowhere is enough.
I cradle his face with both hands, fingertips tracing the scar, then fist his jacket and pull. He comes with it, bending into me, and we're standing on a Greek road in the dark with the Aegean somewhere close and weeks of longing finally, violently, collapsing between us.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing like we've been running.
His forehead drops to mine.
His hands are shaking.
Mine are, too.
For a long moment, neither of us says anything. Just breathing. Just his hands on my face and mine on his chest and the warm Greek night around us.
His thumb traces my cheekbone. Catches a tear. Then another.
“Hi,” I manage. Barely a word. More breath than sound.
Something moves through his expression—the open version, the unguarded one.
“Hi,” he says.
Behind us, Ian starts the engine of his car, the sound of gravel being crunched under tires as he drives away, giving us the only thing he can give us right now—a moment that belongs entirely to us, the longing and missing each other finally, briefly, gloriously over.
I don't let go of his jacket.
He doesn't let go of my face.
Ian’s car disappears down the road, taillights swallowed by the dark.
“Are you okay?” I search his face.
“I’m okay now.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. Kisses my temple.
“Are you hurt? Is something wrong?”
“Not anymore.” He kisses below my ear, fingers in my hair now.
“I missed you,” I whimper.
He pulls my hair back, and I gasp, lips brushing my throat. “I bled you, Cherry-red.”
My heart expands. My knees go weak. And Reth’s arms snake around my waist, and he yanks the back door open and practically throws me inside.
I barely have time to register the cool leather before he’s on me, crowding into the back seat and slamming the door behind us.
His mouth crashes into mine again—wild, devouring, weeks of longing pouring out in one bruising kiss. Teeth and tongue and desperation. I kiss him back just as hard, hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer, closer, like I can crawl inside his skin if I try hard enough.
His hands are everywhere at once—rough, desperate, shaking with the same need that’s clawing through my own chest. He drags me across the back seat until I’m straddling his lap, my knees sinking into cool leather on either side of his thighs. Our kissing is violent—tongues sliding deep, wet and filthy and starving.
I taste salt from my own tears and underneath it the dark, familiar flavor of him that I dreamed about every single night.
