The heavy oak door clicked shut behind her, a sound that sealed her fate. The air in Zane's entryway was cool and smelled of sandalwood and something indefinably him. He hadn't moved, his tall frame blocking her view of the house, his dark eyes tracing every micro-expression that flickered across her face.
Her professional composure, the armor she'd forged over five long years, felt paper-thin. She clutched the strap of her purse, her knuckles turning white. This is a terrible idea. A catastrophic, emotionally disastrous idea.
"Would you like a tour?" His voice was low, a rough caress in the quiet space.
She shook her head, words failing her. A tour implied a future, a next step. She was barely surviving this step.
He nodded once, a short, sharp gesture. Then his resolve seemed to fracture. The controlled stillness he'd maintained shattered. In one fluid motion, he closed the distance between them. His hands came up, not to grab, but to frame her face, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin just below the mole by her eye. His touch was calloused, familiar, and it sent a jolt straight through her core.
"God, Brianna," he breathed, his voice a broken thing. "I just... I need to..."
He didn't finish. He dipped his head, his intent clear. Panic, sharp and acidic, lanced through her. She flinched back, her head knocking gently against the door. "Zane, wait."
He froze, his lips a mere inch from hers. His eyes burned with a desperate, raw hunger that made her breath catch. "Please," he whispered, the word ragged. "Please don't make me wait another five years for this."
His words were a key, twisting in the lock of her heart. The air grew thick, charged with a current of unsaid things and forgotten sensations. The space between their bodies hummed with it. She could feel the heat radiating from him, smell the faint, clean scent of his soap mixed with the unique aroma of his skin. Her own body responded, a traitorous warmth pooling low in her belly, her pulse a wild drum against her ribs.
He saw the shift in her. He always could. His hands slid from her face, down her arms, until his fingers found hers, lacing them together. He was giving her an anchor, a choice. He pulled her forward, not with force, but with a gentle, insistent tug that her body obeyed before her mind could protest.
He drew her into the spacious living room, all dark wood and neutral tones, and then into his arms. He enveloped her, one hand splayed against the small of her back, the other coming up to cradle the back of her head. He held her tightly, as if she were something precious, he'd retrieved from the sea.
"We don't have to do anything," he murmured into her hair, his voice a vibration against her temple. "I swear to God, we don't. I just... I need to kiss you. Just let me kiss you, my pretty girl. Just once."
The old endearment, spoken in that shattered, yearning tone, broke the last of her resistance. A sob caught in her throat. She felt his arms tighten around her, a solid, unshakeable shelter. She gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod against his chest.
It was all the permission he needed.
He didn't swoop in. He was painfully slow, giving her every second to change her mind. He lowered his head, his breath warm on her lips, his hypnotic dark eyes holding hers captive. The world narrowed to this point, to the space where their breath mingled. The first brush of his lips was soft, a question. A ghost of a touch, testing, remembering.
It was a spark on dry tinder.
A small, broken sound escaped her, and he took it as an answer. The kiss deepened, transforming from a question into a desperate, aching answer of its own. His mouth moved over hers with a hunger that stole the air from her lungs. This wasn't the gentle reunion she might have imagined in her weaker moments. This was a claiming. A five-year drought ending in a deluge.
His beard was rough against her skin, a delicious friction that was so inherently Zane. His hand left her back, his fingers tangling in the hair at her nape, tilting her head to allow him better access. The other arm banded around her waist, pulling her flush against him. She could feel the hard planes of his body, the relentless strength in his arms, the furious hammering of his heart against hers.
She melted into him, her hands sliding up his chest to clutch at the soft fabric of his shirt. The past fell away—the silence, the pain, the lonely nights. There was only this. Only the taste of him, a mix of coffee and mint and sheer, unadulterated want. Only the feel of his hands on her, branding her through her clothes.
The kiss became everything. It was an apology and a forgiveness. It was a question and its devastating answer. It was a memory and a brand-new beginning, all at once. He kissed her like a man starved, each movement saying everything his words never could. I'm sorry. I missed you. I never stopped.
When he finally broke for air, they were both breathing raggedly. He rested his forehead against hers, his eyes clenched shut. His chest heaved. She could feel the tremble in his arms where he held her.
"Brianna," he gasped, his voice thick with emotion. "Tell me this is real."
