But I can tell she's not sure. Can see the uncertainty in the way she holds herself, the way her eyes track me like she's waiting for me to push too hard.
I cross to the couch, kneel in front of her so we're eye level. "I want to apologize to you properly."
Her breath catches. "You already did. Downstairs with the papers and explaining about Bianca?—"
"That was explaining." I reach out slowly, giving her time to pull away, and rest my hands on her knees. "This is different."
"Declan—" But she doesn't move, doesn't tell me to stop.
"I hurt you." My thumbs brush small circles against her kneecaps, gentle through the fabric of her sleep shorts. "Made you think I'd moved on, that I'd built something with someoneelse. Made you feel like you'd lost me again. That deserves a proper apology."
Her fingers flex against her arms. "You didn't know she'd come here?—"
"Doesn't matter." I slide my hands up slightly, just to mid-thigh, still over her shorts. "I should have told you about the marriage from the beginning. Should have been honest instead of strategic. So I'm sorry, and I need you to believe that."
"I believe you." Her voice is barely above a whisper. "I do, I just?—"
"Just what?" I'm watching her face, cataloging every microexpression.
"I'm scared." The admission comes out broken. "That we're moving too fast again. That we'll get caught up in each other and it'll explode and this time Maeve's in the middle of it and I can't?—"
"We're going slow." I remind her gently. "You set the pace. Whatever you're comfortable with."
She looks at me for a long moment, something shifting in her expression. "What if I want this? Right now?"
My hands still on her thighs. "Want what?"
"You." She leans forward slightly, close enough that I can smell vanilla and the mint of her toothpaste. "Making me feel good. Reminding me what it was like before everything got complicated."
Heat floods through me—want and need and eight years of deprivation. But I force myself to stay still, to not just take what she's offering without making sure.
"You're exhausted. Emotional. Not thinking clearly?—"
"I'm thinking perfectly clearly." Her hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing over my jaw. "I want you to touch me. Want to feel something good after a week of feeling terrible. Can you do that?"
I turn my head, press a kiss to her palm. "I can do that."
"Then do it." Not a question. A demand.
I slide my hands up her thighs, bunching the fabric of her sleep shorts. She lifts her hips without prompting and I peel them down slowly, giving her every opportunity to change her mind, to tell me to stop.
She doesn't.
The shorts hit the floor and I'm looking at her—really looking at her—in a way I’ve been aching to for so long. She's not wearing underwear, just bare and perfect and already wanting if the way her thighs are trembling is any indication.
I press my lips to her knee, feel her jump at the contact. It's been eight years since I kissed someone else's skin. Eight years since I let myself want anyone. But this isn't just anyone—this isher, and I remember exactly how to make her fall apart.
I work my way up the inside of her left thigh, pressing soft kisses to warm skin. She tastes like the lavender body wash she's always used, smells like vanilla and something uniquely hers that I'd recognize anywhere. Her hand comes up to grip my hair, not pulling yet but holding on like she needs the anchor.
"Declan—" My name is breathy, uncertain.
"Shh." I kiss higher, dragging my lips over sensitive skin. "Let me apologize properly."
I take my time, switching to her other thigh and starting at the knee again. Slow, deliberate kisses that make her squirm. Her fingers tighten in my hair, legs spreading wider to give me better access.
"Please." She's trying to keep quiet—mindful of Maeve sleeping in the next room—but need is making her voice rough. "Stop teasing."
"Not teasing." I press a kiss to where her thigh meets her hip, feel her entire body shudder. "Savoring."
