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He took a deep breath as he looked up at the sky. Then exhaled long and low before turning back to me.
“Then how’s this?” he asked with slightly less bite. “I can’t think of anything I want more than to have you, Francesca Zola, alone, naked, and willing, in my bed. It might have been five years since I last saw you, but I haven’t forgotten a single second of those four weeks. And now you’re here, and I’m here, and I literally cannot think of a single fucking thing that could be more important than stripping your clothes off and worshipping you until the sun rises.”
By the time he was done speaking, his voice had dropped to a low growl. Once more, he brushed his thumb over my lips, his gaze following, searing across my skin.
“Fireworks,” he whispered, and the word echoed through my very soul. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
I couldn’t. Every part of my body ached for him, right on the street. Every cell set alight by his tender touch. My lower lip trembled. I didn’t understand it until now what it meant to want something—someone—so much I wanted to cry.
“Look.” His hand slipped down my arm to take mine again. “If all you want is to sit upstairs and drink subpar tea and talk for another few hours, I’ll take that too. I just don’t want to miss out on you, Ces. It feels like the restaurants, the business, everything brought me here. Just for this night. This moment. It was all leading me back to you.”
I’d wished for his thoughts, and by God, now I had them. Every overwhelming one.
“So.” He stood up fully, his height demanding a response. “Do you really have to go?”
I swallowed thickly. But I didn’t pull my hand away.
“No,” I said. “I don’t.”
