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He does.
His mouth crashes against mine, and I forget every clever thing I’ve ever said.
He pulls me closer, one hand sliding into my hair, the other settling firmly against my waist.
I grip his jacket and kiss him back.
Hard.
Desperate.
Ten years of wanting him condensed into one reckless moment.
He backs me gently against the motorcycle, shielding me from the cold wind with his body.
“Fuck, Pumpkin,” he murmurs.
I smile against his mouth.
“Language.”
“You’re gonna be the death of me.”
“Again with the death jokes.”
“Occupational hazard.”
I laugh.
He kisses me again.
Slower this time.
His thumb brushes my cheek, and for once, he doesn’t immediately pull away.
He lets himself linger.
Lets himself smile when I tug him closer.
Lets himself kiss me until my knees feel suspiciously unreliable.
When he finally lifts his head, his forehead rests against mine.
“Missed this,” he admits.
“Kissing me?”
“Being with you.”
My chest tightens.
“Then stop wasting time.”
His mouth curves.
“Bossy little thing.”
“Still like it?”
