Page 45 of Deal Breaker
“I want to.”
We move around the kitchen in sync. I wash the plates, he dries them. He hands me a towel. I pass him the silverware. It’s too easy. Too familiar. Toous.
I pass him the last plate, our fingers brushing briefly. He takes it, towel in hand, and starts to dry. When I glance up, his gaze is already on me. Steady. A little unguarded. Something in my chest pulls tight.
“I used to picture this,” he says, voice like gravel, quiet but heavy enough to land deep. “You in this kitchen with me. Not just for a night. For longer.”
The words steal the air from my lungs.
“I know I shouldn’t admit that,” he adds. “But it’s true.”
I turn slowly to face him as if any sudden movement will shatter the fragile thread between us. His eyes catch mine—steady, searching—and then he lifts a hand. The pad of his finger grazes my temple as he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. It’s a soft, almost meaningless gesture. Except it isn’t.His touch lingers, the heat of his skin searing in the space between us.
“Tell me not to kiss you,” he murmurs.
The words hang there, dangerous and impossible.
I should say it.
I should stop him.
But my breath catches, and before I realize I’m moving, I step forward.
He meets me halfway, fingers sliding along my jaw, feather-light, testing, like he’s bracing for me to pull away. I don’t. I tip closer, pulled by something older than our hurt.
When our lips meet, it’s not tentative—it’s urgent.
Like no time has passed.
His lips fuse to mine, warm and firm, and the second he deepens the kiss, tilting his head, parting his mouth, I let out the softest breath against him. His tongue grazes mine, slow and unhurried, but full of intent.
My fingers curl into the front of his shirt before I can stop them, gripping the soft fabric like it might anchor me, like if I don’t hold onto something, I might fall apart right here in his kitchen.
He tastes like whiskey and heat and something that aches down my spine. His hand slides down to my waist, large and steady, drawing me in until my chest presses against his. He kisses me deeper then, longer, and my knees nearly go weak from the weight of it. From the way he groans low in his throat when I kiss him back just as hard.
It’s not frantic. It’s not careful. It’s slow and devastating and full of everything we’ve tried not to say. Everything we lost. Everything we still want.
When we finally pull apart, it’s not because we want to, it’s because we have to.
His forehead rests against mine, our breath tangled inthe small space between us. I feel the rise and fall of his chest against mine, the faint tremble in his fingers, still gripping my waist. Then his hand slides slowly—deliberately—from my waist to my hip, then lower, fingers brushing along the curve of my thigh through my jeans.
“Lan,” he utters raggedly into my mouth. “Oh god.”
“I know?—,”
His eyes lift to mine. Something sharp flickers there—desire, frustration, a kind of hunger I remember too well.
Then he leans in and kisses me again, this time with no hesitation.
His mouth claims mine—slow, deep, like he’s trying to relearn every inch of me. His tongue sweeps across my lower lip, coaxing it open, and I melt into it, gasping softly as he kisses me harder, like he’s been waiting years to taste me again.
I don’t move away. I can’t.
His hands slide up, over my ribs, under my sweater, fingertips grazing my skin, and I shiver at the contact. His touch is careful but possessive.
He pulls back just long enough to look at me. His voice is rough. “Tell me to stop.”
I don’t. I can’t.
