Page 72 of Stolen Rebel

I’m not sure if that’s sweet or creepy, but his attention sets my nerve endings alight.

His breath tickles my face, making my nose crinkle. “I didn’t mean to wake you.” His voice is soft.

I yawn, opening my eyes as I stretch. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

He looks exhausted in the warm glow of the lamp in the study. A hungover Sorcha left early this afternoon after Maeve fed us a fry to mop up the alcohol in our systems. Apparently, Sorcha had stuff to do up north. She said she’d be back tomorrow and to keep her updated on any developments. Does Liam watching me sleep count as an update?

She even put her number in my burner, like we’re real friends. The house has felt empty all day, just my wee shadow Titan following at my heels from empty room to empty room.

Why do they have a house this big, if there’s no one around to fill it?

I’ve missed him, so I let myself stare at his stupidly handsome face, enjoying the flutter of wings in my belly. I dreamt of him during my nap, of our tangled limbs and breath, the way his skin felt against mine. How he’d hold me close afterward as though he couldn’t bear to let me go.

I’ve tried to ignore the attraction, tried to keep the wall between past Liam and Rowan and present Liam and Rowan strong. But it’s not strong. I’m not strong. Not anymore.

I sit up. He gives me space to put my feet on the floor, but he stays crouched in front of me so we’re level.

“Are you still angry at me?” I hold my breath while I reach out a hand to touch his face. This time, he doesn’t pull away. In fact, he leans into my palm. My heart damn near stops dead.

“I wasn’t angry at you, Rowan.” His breath skates across my face.

“But you were angry.”

He nods.

We’re so close.

“Why?”

His eyes flutter closed like he’s asking for strength, for what, I’m not sure. When they open again, he looks haunted. “Because he hurt…” His thumb presses into my hip. “What’s mine.”

The confession falls from his lips. His very… kissable lips. Maybe it’s the nap, the memory of how they feel when they touch mine, or maybe it’s the conversation I had with Sorcha last night that tugs at me. The idea that the last five years might not have needed to happen, that Brian might have controlled me for reasons I can’t fathom. But my body leans toward his.

I don’t know how it happens, or maybe I do, but when our lips touch, gravity pulls… inevitable… inescapable, and every single neuron in my body sparks at once.

He doesn’t pounce. He goes still, like maybe he doesn’t believe it’s real. Or maybe he’s deciding whether to let us crash over the cliff’s edge into the raging waves below. For a beat, it feels like he might not kiss me back, that Sorcha misread everything. That what we had might be gone.

I hesitate, my lips pressed against his, body poised, ready to pull back. I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be this close to another human being, but the faint tingle of embarrassment nibbles at my gut.

I’m already preparing what I’m going to say when he breaks the kiss, but he doesn’t. His hand slides to my throat. He doesn’t squeeze; it just sits there, claiming. I’m caught somewhere between breathing and surrender. He cups my jaw before sliding his fingers into my hair. He tugs, and I gasp. The sound I make breaks whatever restraint he was holding on to. His kiss grows hungrier, harder, more demanding.

Relief loosens something in me, softening every muscle, but it’s desire that parts my lips, a moan slipping from my mouth to his.

He isn’t still anymore. His hand tightens in my hair, his other finding my waist. He tugs me closer. I respond by clawing at his shirt, a desperate need consuming me from the inside out. I trace my fingertips over his scar, and he lets out a half-moan, half-agonizing groan.

It’s not the explosion of need that I might have expected if I thought we’d ever kiss again, but it isn’t tentative and shy either. It’s exploratory, deliberate, like we’re both trying to determine if everything is how we remember it.

His thigh wedges between mine, and my hips roll before I can stop them. My spine bows, head tipping back, exposing my throat like I’m offering it to him. Heat floods low and fast, pooling between my legs, a brutal reminder that we’ve done this all before. My body remembers him even when my heart and mind tried not to.

A small, broken sound slips out of me, and he moans like it fuels him. Call and response. We fit like we never stopped, like the last five years never happened, like we were never torn apart by a cruel twist of fate, like this was destined to happen.

He growls into my mouth and pulls my hair taut. My body responds like it’s been waiting for this moment for five years. Because it has. Our tongues dance to a familiar pattern. A buzzing sound makes us pause, and when it doesn’t stop, his forehead drops to mine. He curses, breath feathering my lips. “I should take this.”

His jaw tightens before his gaze drops to my mouth, then lower, like whoever’s on the end of the call matters, but so do I.

He doesn’t pick up. He ignores it, but it rings again. He kisses me again, harder, like if he kisses me enough it might stop whoever is demanding his attention from intruding on this moment. I almost pull myself into his lap because I don’t want it to stop either.

Call and response. Have we both been holding this kiss in our lungs for five years and are finally, finally getting to exhale? Because that’s exactly what this feels like.