Page 72 of The Ache That Stayed

Still on my mouth. Still in my lungs. Still under my skin.

My lips tingled, chest tight, like she hadn’t left at all. The way she leaned into my touch instead of pushing me away. She’d felt the exact second my restraint snapped. And she’d answered it as though she’d been waiting for me to lose control.

I dragged a hand slowly down my face and exhaled, once, then again, like that might settle the turmoil clawing through my chest. It didn’t.

The cottage felt different now. Like something had been knocked out of place and refused to fit back together.

A mistake.

That’s what she’d called it. A dry laugh left me low and humourless.

A mistake was leaving. A mistake was letting myself feel anything for the one woman who was never supposed to be mine.

A mistake was walking away from her two years ago and pretending it hadn’t carved me out. Standing on the sidelines while she built a life with Marcello and convincing myself it didn’t matter. A mistake was believing distance would fix what I felt.

But that—

The way her body reacted to me before she could make sense of it. The way she melted against me like she too had been waiting for the shoe to drop.

And the kiss—

That wasn’t a mistake. That was inevitable. A bomb that had been sitting between us for years. Just waiting for someone to light the fuse. A line I’d drawn years ago that we’d finally crossed.

I leaned back against the counter, the same one I’d had her on minutes ago, and shut my eyes.

Bad idea. She came back instantly. The way she’d gasped into my mouth. Her hands fisting into my hair like she needed me to steady her. Her body moving against mine—instinctive, unguarded—for that one reckless second. And the maddening scent of her arousal—

“Fuck.”

I pushed off the counter, restless energy crawling under my skin, refusing to settle. I ran both hands through my hair, trying to regain control when I already knew it was gone.

I’d kept the leash tight for two years.

Fights. Women. Work. Violence.

I buried her beneath all of it.

Two years of distance. Of watching her from afar, making sure she was safe and telling myself that was enough.

It wasn’t. It was never going to be.

Because the second I touched her—really touched her—everything I’d buried came back like it had been waiting.

And she’d felt it. I knew she had. The way her body responded, leaning into me—it wasn’t imagined. As though some part of her already knew what to do with me.

My jaw tightened at the thought.

“Dangerous game, Rossi,” I muttered under my breath.

It wasn’t a warning to myself. It was the truth.

Because this wasn’t just attraction. This wasn’t an impulse I could switch off and walk away from again.

I’d tried. But the minute I decided that I needed to be around to protect her, the carefully placed dominoes started falling.

This was years of restraint snapping in one moment.

My moment of weakness. And Roxanne had felt the collapse too.