The sound of his name on her lips was a plea, a promise, and a prayer all at once. It was the fracture point. His mouth captured hers, not with the gentle exploration of before, but with a raw, pent-up hunger that stole the air from her lungs. It was a kiss that tasted of five years of regret and five years of wanting. It wasn't gentle. It was necessary.
His hands slid from her face, down her back, molding her against the hard, unyielding line of his body. One arm hooked under her knees, the other cradled her back, and he lifted her from the counter as if she weighed nothing at all. The world tilted, her stomach swooping, and her arms flew around his neck for purchase.
He didn't break the kiss. He carried her from the kitchen, his mouth moving over hers with a devastating expertise that made thought impossible. Her notes on healthy boundaries, her carefully constructed walls, the mantra of self-preservation she recited daily—it all dissolved into the heat of his mouth and the strength of his arms.
The hallway was a dark blur. Her senses narrowed to a tunnel: the scent of his skin, clean and masculine, the feel of his cotton shirt under her clutching fingers, the solid thud of his heartbeat against her chest. Her own heart hammered against her ribs; a frantic bird trapped in a cage of rediscovered need.
He shouldered open a door and the atmosphere shifted. The light was softer here, muted by drawn blinds, painting the large, sparse room in shades of grey and charcoal. A wide bed dominated the space, its covers pulled tight, military-neat. This was his sanctum. The air held his essence, a faint, clean smell of soap and him.
He didn't toss her onto the mattress. He lowered her onto the edge of the bed with a surprising, aching slowness, his body following hers down, caging her gently between his arms. His mouth finally left hers, both of them breathing in ragged, shared gasps. His forehead rested against hers, his eyes closed.
"Brianna," he rasped, the word rough with emotion. "God, Brianna."
Her name had never sounded like that before. It was a broken thing, a confession. Her fingers, of their own volition, slid into the thick hair at the nape of his neck. It was just as soft as she remembered.
His eyes opened, and the intensity in them was almost too much to bear. They were dark, fathomless pools, and she felt herself falling into them, drowning in a history she'd tried so desperately to forget. He was looking at her as if he were memorizing her, as if she were a miracle he'd never expected to see again.
One of his hands came up, his thumb stroking her cheekbone with a touch so reverent it made her want to weep. He traced the line of her eyebrow, the curve of her jaw, the small, familiar mole just beside her eye. A map of a face he once knew by heart.
"You're even more beautiful," he whispered, his voice low and gravelly. "It's not fair."
A shaky breath escaped her. "Zane..."
"Shhh." He replaced his thumb with his lips, pressing a soft, closed-mouth kiss to the mole. Then another just below it, on the high curve of her cheekbone. His beard was a soft scratch against her skin, a new sensation that sent a shiver racing down her spine. He was mapping her with his mouth now, tracing a slow, burning path across her cheek, down to the corner of her lips.
He lingered there, his breath hot against her skin, not taking the kiss she was waiting for, aching for. The anticipation was a live wire, sparking under her skin. Her lips parted on a silent plea.
His control was a visible, trembling thing. She could see the muscle in his jaw jumping, feel the fine tremor in the hand that now cupped her face. He was holding himself back, and the sheer force of his restraint was more intoxicating than any passionate advance could ever be.
His kisses moved again, drifting along her jawline to the sensitive spot just beneath her ear. He nuzzled there, inhaling deeply, and a low groan rumbled in his chest. "You still smell the same. That fucking vanilla thing."
A tear finally escaped, tracing a hot path down the very trail his lips had just taken. He felt it. He went perfectly still.
He pulled back just enough to look at her, his expression shifting from heated hunger to pained concern. "Hey. No. Don't cry." His thumb brushed the tear away, his touch infinitely gentle. "We stop. Right now. Just say the word."
She shook her head, the motion jerky. They weren't tears of sadness, not really. They were tears of overwhelming, terrifying feeling. Of a dam breaking inside her after years of being meticulously, painfully cemented shut.
"I'm not... I'm not asking you to stop," she managed, her voice thick.
He searched her face, his gaze roving over her features as if checking for the truth. "Then what is it, pretty girl? Tell me."
She couldn't articulate the storm inside her—the fear that this was a dream, the ghost of his abandonment, the sheer, overwhelming potency of his presence. So she showed him. She slid her hands from his neck to his shoulders, feeling the hard muscle there, and then down his arms, her touch tentative, re-learning the landscape of him.
His breath caught this time. His eyes flared, the dark heat returning tenfold. He watched her hands as they moved over him, his body rigid with the effort of staying still.
Her fingers found the hem of his t-shirt. They slipped beneath it, just an inch, just enough to touch the warm, bare skin of his lower back. It was like touching a live current. He jerked as if electrocuted, a sharp, ragged gasp tearing from his throat.
"Fuck, Brianna."
His hands, which had been braced on the bed on either side of her, came up to frame her face again. His eyes were burning, his expression a mixture of awe and pure, undiluted want.
"Do you have any idea," he began, his voice dropping to a husky, strained whisper that vibrated through her entire being, "what it does to me? You touching me?" He leaned in, his lips a hair's breadth from hers. The air crackled.
"Tell me you want this," he breathed, the words a desperate command. "Tell me you want me."_
