His mouth finds hers and it's not tentative—it's hungry, desperate, his tongue sliding against hers before she's ready, before she's braced for the force of it. She makes a sound against his lips, something between a gasp and a whimper, and he drinks it like he's been starving. His hands find the hem of her sweater and slide under, cold palms flat against her ribs, and the shock of his skin on hers undoes something low in her belly. She shudders into him, her fingers finding the collar of his shirt, twisting the fabric, pulling him closer until there's no space left between them.
His hands are rough against her sides, calloused palms dragging up her ribs, thumbs brushing the underwire of her bra. She feels the heat of him through his shirt, feels the hard line of his chest against hers, and she realizes she's not just kissing him—she's taking back something she surrendered years ago. All those nights she told herself she was fine, all those mornings waking up alone and pretending she preferred it—they hollow out in the heat of his mouth on hers.
His knee nudges her backward, a gentle pressure against her thigh, and she lets herself be moved. Her heel catches on the edge of a rug, and she stumbles a half-step, her hand sliding from his collar to his shoulder for balance. He catches her, one arm wrapping around her waist, pulling her upright and closer at the same time, and his mouth never breaks from hers.
The back of her knees hit something—the couch, she thinks, the worn leather she saw when they first walked in. His hips press against hers, pinning her against the armrest, and she feels the hard length of him through his jeans. The breath leaves her lungs, and she breaks the kiss just long enough to gasp, her forehead dropping to his, her eyes still closed.
"Daniel." His name comes out rough, almost a question, and she hates how vulnerable she sounds. Hates how he can still undo her with nothing but his body against hers.
His hand cups her jaw, tilting her face up, and when she opens her eyes he's looking at her like she's something sacred. His pupils are blown wide, nearly swallowing the hazel, and his chest is rising and falling in heavy, uneven breaths.
"Say it again," he says, his voice low and rough, his thumb tracing her lower lip.
She wants to deflect. Wants to make a joke about how needy he sounds, wants to build the wall back up with a quip and a step back. But her hand is still twisted in his shirt, and her body is still pressed against his, and she's so tired of pretending she doesn't want this.
"Daniel," she says again, and this time it's not a question. It's a permission. A surrender.
His mouth finds hers again, softer now but no less hungry, and his hands slide down her back, over the curve of her hips, settling on her thighs. He lifts her, and she wraps her legs around his waist without thinking, without hesitation, and he carries her the half-step to the couch and lowers her onto the leather.
The yellow lamplight spills across his face as he hovers over her, one arm braced beside her head, his other hand resting on her hip. His thumb traces the skin just above the waistband of her jeans, and she watches him watch her, watches the struggle play across his features—want and restraint and something like fear.
She sees the war in his eyes—the want warring with the fear, the hunger fighting the restraint—and something in her chest cracks open. She reaches up, her fingers finding the nape of his neck, and pulls him down. Not hard. Steady. Inevitable. His arms buckle, and he comes to her, his chest pressing hers into the worn leather.
Her mouth catches his. It's not the frantic collision from before. It's slower, deliberate, her tongue tracing the seam of his lips until he opens for her. She tastes the surrender before he gives it—a low sound in his throat, a shudder that runs from his shoulders to his hips. She cups his jaw, her thumb brushing the stubble on his cheek, and kisses him like she's trying to pour every word she never said directly into his lungs.
His hand slides under her sweater, palm flat against her spine, and the warmth of his skin sinks into hers. She feels the fight drain out of him. The rigid line of his shoulders softens. He sinks deeper into her, his weight pressing her into the leather, and she wraps her arms around him to hold him there.
She breaks the kiss, but only inches. Her lips brush his jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. His eyes are still closed, his breath ragged against her skin. She presses her forehead to his and waits until he opens them.
"I'm here," she whispers. "I'm not going anywhere."
The fear in his eyes shifts. It doesn't disappear—she sees the echo of it, the deep scar of five years of wondering—but it softens. His hand moves from her spine to her hip, his thumb tracing the waistband of her jeans. He looks at her like she's the first real thing he's seen in years.
His fingers slip under the hem of her sweater, calloused palm settling on the bare skin of her stomach. He doesn't push higher. He waits, the question in the pressure of his fingertips, the tremble in his hand.
She arches into him. Her back lifts off the couch, pressing her belly into his palm, her body answering before her mouth can. "Yes," she says. Just that. One word. The word she should have said five years ago.
He slides her sweater up, baring her ribs to the yellow lamplight, and presses his mouth to the skin just above her heart. His lips are warm, his breath uneven. He stays there, his thumb resting against the underwire of her bra, his whole body shaking with the effort of holding back.
She threads her fingers through his hair and holds him there, feeling his heart beat against her ribs. The almost is over. This is real.
His mouth traces a path down her sternum, each kiss a brand against her skin. The stubble on his jaw scrapes the sensitive hollow of her throat, and she feels it in her toes, in the curl of her fingers against his scalp. He takes his time, deliberate and unhurried, as if mapping every inch of her is a ritual he's been waiting years to perform.
The yellow lamplight catches the dark sweep of his lashes, the concentration in his brow. He could be studying blueprints with that focus, that careful precision—except his hands are trembling against her ribs, and his breath comes in uneven, hot pulls against her skin.
His mouth reaches the curve of her breast, and he pauses. The air between them thickens. She feels his hesitation in the way his lips hover, barely brushing the fabric of her bra, his breath warm through the thin cotton.
She holds still. Doesn't push. Doesn't pull. The choice hangs between them, and she wants him to make it—wants him to take what he's been too afraid to reach for.
His thumb hooks under the strap of her bra, dragging it down her shoulder. The fabric slips, baring the upper curve of her breast to the lamplight, and he makes a sound low in his throat—something between a groan and a prayer. His mouth finds the newly exposed skin, and she arches into him, her fingers tightening in his hair.
"Sophie." Her name on his lips, broken and reverent, and she feels the word sink into her chest like a stone dropped into still water. He presses his forehead to her collarbone, shaking, his hand splayed flat against her stomach.
"I know," she whispers. She doesn't need to ask what he's afraid of. She feels it in the tremor running through his shoulders, in the way his grip on her hip tightens and loosens, tightens and loosens, like he's still convincing himself she's real.
She cups his jaw and lifts his face until his eyes meet hers. The hazel is molten in the lamplight, ringed with something dark and desperate. She holds his gaze as she reaches behind her back and unclasps her bra.
The click of the clasp is the loudest sound in the room.