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For a long, terrible second, I think I’ve gotten it wrong after all.

Then he says, very low, “Come here.”

Two words. The same two words he said downstairs.

My legs carry me across the room before my brain gets a vote.

I stop in front of him. Close enough to feel the heat coming off his skin. Close enough to smell soap and steam and something underneath that’s just him. Close enough that I have to tip my head all the way back to look at his face.

He lifts his free hand. It’s not quite steady. He cups my jaw, the same way he did downstairs, his palm wide and warm and damp, his thumb resting at the corner of my mouth.

“Say it again,” he says.

“Which part?”

“That you’re choosing this. That you want me to touch you. To claim you.” His voice cracks on the last word. Just barely.

I put my hand flat on his chest. His heart is slamming under my palm, fast and hard, as fast as mine.

“I’m choosing this,” I whisper. “I’m choosing you. I want you.”

He makes a sound low in his throat. And then he kisses me.

It isn’t careful. I expected careful. I expected polite and restrained and a little bit cautious, the way he does everything.

This isn’t that.

His mouth comes down on mine like he’s been starving. Like he’s been standing outside a locked door for weeks and someone finally handed him the key. His hand slides back into my hair. His other arm comes around my waist and hauls me against him, and the towel stays exactly where it is only because there’s no longer any space between us for it to go anywhere.

He’s wet. He’s warm. And he’s everywhere.

I make a sound against his mouth that I’ve never made in my life.

He swallows it.

I grip his shoulders. My fingers slide on damp skin. He tilts my head and kisses me deeper, slower, his thumb stroking along my jaw, and every bone in my body turns to warm honey.

I forget my own name.

Well. Not my name. He’s saying it now, between kisses, rough and low against my lips. Noelle. Noelle. Like he’s been holding it in his mouth for weeks and finally gets to let it out.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only an inch.

His forehead rests against mine. We’re both breathing hard. His eyes are closed.

“Counteroffer,” he says roughly.

I laugh. It comes out shaky and breathless and a little bit giddy.

“You’re negotiating? Now?”

“I’m always negotiating.”

“Fine.” I curl my fingers against his chest. “What’s your counteroffer?”

He opens his eyes. They’re dark and hot and, under all of that, something else. Something careful. Something that looks almost like fear.

“We take it slow,” he says. “We don’t confuse Shiloh. And the second you’re not sure about anything, you tell me.”