Page 131 of What Remains

“We finally crossed the line that never should’ve existed?” I whisper against his lips.

“Mm-hmm.” He releases my face and surprises me by lifting me onto the dining room table. When he presses into me, I wrap my legs around him and drape my forearms over his shoulders. He trails his lips along my jaw, tucking a flyaway behind my ear. “God, I can’t wait to make love to you.”

Make love.

My body stills. My heart rhythm doesn’t. No one’s ever said that to me. Sex. Shagging. Banging, sure. But love?

“I’ve never done that before.” Emotion catches in my throat.

He runs the back of his hand along my cheek. “Done what?”

“Made love,” I admit. “You’d have to love someone to make love, right?”

He nods, eyes glistening like this big, tough man might actually cry. “Listen, we’ve got things to work through—you and me. And we’re gonna butt heads because we’re both stubborn.” His thumbs trace circles at my cheeks. “But the reasons that scare me about being together don’t have shit on how terrified I am of losing you.”

Our first post-kiss talk got blown apart by the fake plane crash, so I still don’t fully understand those reasons, but I’m right there with him. “Same,” I whisper-cry. “But I do need to remind you, I’m⁠—”

“Trouble, I know.” He sets his hands on each side of me on the table. “The good kind of trouble,” he adds gruffly. “The kind I can more than handle.”

Last night’s conversation is still lingering unfinished between us, so I admit, “I hope you realize by now I want a heck of a lot more than one night with you.” My gaze drops to his forearm, then I take in the sight of the other. They’re corded and tense, leading to broad shoulders built to take impact. I trace one raised vein with my fingertip, following it to the back of his hand. “Any thoughts on what you’d do with nights plural?”

His grin turns wolfish. “Just nights?” Calm settles over his expression, the kind born of experience, not innocence. “How about mornings and afternoons, too? All the hours in all the days.”

I see what he’s doing. Asking for forever while still holding something back. He’s afraid he’ll push me off the fear ledge I’m living on.

But I’m ready to choose solid ground.

With him.

For us.

My hands slide over his rigid arms, grounding myself in the strength beneath my palms. “That could be arranged.”

A faint crease forms between his brows. He wants to say more, but he’s holding in his words. And why wouldn’t he feel that way with my one foot dangling on the other side of the cliff like a warning?

“Leave it to us to have this conversation in the middle of a life-or-death op.”

One hand moves to my waist. Steadying, not claiming. The other cups the back of my neck over my hair. He studies me intently, like I matter to him. And I know I do. “If not now . . . when?”

I fist his shirt, and the control he wears like armor cracks, just as mine does.

His mouth crashes over my lips on a rough breath. The kiss starts soft, almost asking, then turns fierce. Possessive. Desperate.

He leans me farther back, sliding a hand between us, over my breasts atop my shirt. His beard grazes my skin, kisses mapping a heated trail from my mouth to my ear and back again.

It’s messy and real and devastatingly perfect.

The table creaks under our shifting weight as his voice breaks against my lips. “I’m trying to behave, and you’re making that impossible.” He forces space between us, hands braced on the table once again.

How am I supposed to return to reality after that? “Trouble,” I murmur. “I know.”

He presses his forehead to mine and groans. “There was something you were supposed to be telling me, wasn’t there?”

Shit, was there?

He exhales as if surrendering to something, then picks me up and sets me on my feet.

“Let me first just . . .” My brain is gone. Completely gone.