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He makes a sound of disbelief at the back of his throat—and she knows how many people have told him the opposite. She doesn’t think they mean it horribly, and in looks they are similar, as well as that charm—though Finn is never mean with it. It’s the type of thing people say offhand, but which can grow to be a self-belief. Maybe she should have realized that a little more, when they were together. She knew how worried he was, introducing her to his dad, but she’s not sure she fully understood the extent of it.

“You’re not,” she says firmly. “Not in the ways that count, anyway.” She hesitates, a trickle of doubt creeping in—is there a chance he cheated on her? Could that be what he meant by that? That, like his dad, he was unfaithful? No. She shuts that thought down as firmly as she can. She knows he didn’t cheat, and no matter what is between them now, she doesn’t want to start doubting that.

“And I’m not like your mum, you know,” she adds, setting her mug down on the side table. A crease forms on his brow, and she knows he’s wondering where she’s going with this. “I would have told you if you were making me unhappy.”

He glances over at her, but she can see he doesn’t believe that, either. “You didn’t dampen me, Finn,” she says—with the tiniest hint of frustration. Because how could he not know this?

Finn nods, but she knows him well enough to see he’s just humoring her. God, he can be so bloody stubborn.

“Fine,” she says, throwing her hands in the air. “Don’t listen to me. Keep thinking you’re right about everything, it’s not like I was fifty percent of the relationship or anything.”

She’s scowling as she pushes off the sofa, but his hand comes out to grab her wrist, holding her in place. “Mel, wait—”

She turns to look at him, but whatever it was he wanted to say, he seems to have lost it—because all he’s doing is staring at her. She can feel his fingers on the pulse of her wrist, her blood thudding there. Can feel the tingle that runs from that point of contact, all the way up her arm. She sees the way he swallows, his eyes on hers. She wonders if he’s swallowing down things he wants to say. It was always her, after all, who found it easier to say what she meant. Until the end, that is.

“Mel,” he begins again. But she doesn’t let him finish. She doesn’t think about what’s driving her, or where this need has come from, or if it’s been there, simmering, this whole time.

Not because I stopped loving you.

She doesn’t fully realize what she’s doing when she leans down and presses her lips against his. There is the briefest moment of hesitation, both of them holding their breath, neither wanting to take responsibility for what happens next. And then he is kissing her back, his mouth capturing hers with such force that she stumbles.

His arms come around her, pulling her down onto his lap, his solid chest pressed against hers. Her thighs come to rest on either side of his and, God, the relief, at being able to touch him again, at being able to pull her hands through his hair, tugging him to her.

She whimpers, wanting him closer, and he obliges by digging his fingers into her back, pressing her to him. He moves his lips to her neck and she tips her head back, letting out an appreciative groan.

Finn. He’s here. He’s touching her. He wants her.

It’s all she can think as sensation overwhelms her, stronger than it’s ever been before, that first taste of chocolate after months without. She grinds her hips against his, moving her hands to brace against his shoulders, and he responds by nipping her neck.

He pulls back, his gaze raking across her face, as his hands soften, moving up her sides.

“Fuck, Mel,” he murmurs. “I’ve missed you.”

It sends her heart into a complicated kind of spasm and she closes her eyes against that feeling as his mouth comes back to hers. His fingertips brush the back of her neck, she runs her hands down his back, then around, moving up underneath his jumper to the hard plane of his stomach. She feels his muscles tense against her and a liquid pull goes right through her core.

More. She wants more of him, right now, and she doesn’t care what it costs her. His hands are coming under her top now, too, everywhere he touches turning to flame. Fuck, she’s missed this. And she hates this. Hates how right it feels, how no one else can ever come close. Dimly, she’s thinking this is a bad idea, because now that she’s reminded herself it’s going to be impossible to forget a second time.

But that’s not enough to stop her kissing him, to stop her shifting on his lap and feeling just how much he wants her, the length of him digging into her thigh. He pulls back a fraction, his nose skating down hers, his breath heavy, hers shaky. Her skin is hot and needy all over, wanting his hands, his mouth, on every part of her.

And she knows she’s not the only one. His gaze is inky black as he edges back another centimeter. But he shakes his head, rests his forehead against hers.

“Shit,” he mutters.

She swallows. “Yeah.”

“We shouldn’t do this.” But he grips her buttocks, holding her to him.

“I know.”

“This can’t…We can’t…”

“I know,” she says, and this time it is more of a snap. She’s really perfecting that tone this holiday, isn’t she?

He moves back from her, his fingers loosening their grip. “I don’t want to hurt you, Mel.”

But you already did.

She can’t say that, of course. Instead, she swings her leg off him, standing up. He lets her go. She can’t look at him. Not because she’s embarrassed, particularly, but because she knows that if she looks at him, both of their resolve will weaken—and he’s right, this is not going to end well for her if they go there.