Page 134 of My Husband’s New Fiancée

But sadness isn’t what’s tightening my throat.

It’s hope.

My gaze drops to his mouth.

It’s been so long.

I lean closer, slowly enough to give him a choice. Slowly enough that I can still pull away.

Just as our lips are a breath apart, panic grips my chest out of nowhere.

Dante doesn’t move.

He waits.

He lets me decide.

For a second, I hang suspended between desire and fear.

Then my lips touch his. Barely. The faintest brush. And yet, something explodes inside me.

His breath catches. So does mine.

A sudden heat spreads beneath my skin, awakening everything I’ve spent the last two years trying to bury.

I close my eyes.

Then I do it again. As if I need to make sure he’s real. As if my body refuses to believe I can finally touch him.

A shaky breath escapes me.

My God.

I’d forgotten.

Forgotten how easily he could unravel every certainty I had with a single kiss.

Forgotten how my body recognized him before my mind even had a chance to think.

Then we stop thinking altogether.

His lips part and our breaths mingle.

It’s neither tender nor passionate. It’s hesitant. Awkward, sometimes.

His mouth explores mine carefully, as if he’s still afraid I’ll slip away.

And then the walls I’ve spent two years building begin to crack.

I surrender to the intoxication of the moment.

His taste consumes me. His hands on me drive me mad with desire. His warmth calls to me.

Everything becomes too much and yet not enough.

I move closer, unable to resist the overwhelming need to close the distance between us.

There is only him. Only this ache growing inside me.