into my own time. And then he’s there, in front of me, standing with his face lost in shadow as the moon rises behind him.
I slow, and he reaches for my hands, and I’m about to tease him. Then I see his expression, and any frothy quip dies in my throat. He takes my hands and stares as if I’m some fae creature he found dancing in the moors. His fingers tighten around mine, firm but cautious in case I panic and flee.
My breath catches as his fingers slide up my arm, setting goosebumps rising. His gaze never leaves mine, his eyes dark with an expression I can’t quite read, longing and desire and something almost like fear.
His lips part, but no words come. His breathing sounds quickened and shallow, as if he’s holding himself very still. Only his fingers move, the tips barely touching my skin as they glide up my arm, pausing to brush hair off my shoulder, a lock rubbed between his fingers before they’re on my cheek, stroking, butterfly soft.
“I missed you,” he says, his voice so low I barely hear it even in the silence. “I missed you so . . .”
His voice catches then, and he moves toward me, lips pressing against my forehead, one hand still on mine, the other sliding through my hair.
He pulls back and looks down, and I want to say something.
The moment I think that, I recoil. I do not want to say anything. I don’t dare say anything. I’m afraid that, if I do, it’ll be a lighthearted quip to break a mood that has my heart skipping so fast I can barely breathe.
I want to break this moment. Shatter it. Cast it off.
I want to kiss him. Kiss him until he forgets what he was saying, and I forget what I want to say. Kiss him and unbutton his shirt and push him onto the heather and shatter the mood that way. Lose ourselves in pleasure, and when it ends, we’ll have forgotten there were words to be said, and I’ll be safe.
His fingers caress my cheek, tilting my face to his.
“Are you afraid?” he whispers.
“No,” I say, and that’s all I want to say, all I plan to say. Instead, I hear my voice again, whispering, “I’m terrified.”
His face moves down, so close his breath tickles my lips.
“So am I,” he whispers, and he kisses me.
I’m ready for a kiss from the man whose bed I woke in. A man with a firm, confident touch. Instead, I get a kiss from the boy I knew. That kiss casts me back in time. Not to the first one, which however sweet, had been best suited for romantic comedy. Neither of us had kissed anyone before, and it was like driving a car for the first time. After years of watching others do it, I’d thought I’d known how, and then I sat in the driver’s seat and . . . well, my overwhelming memory is a tornado of panic amid squees of delight. “Oh my God, he’s kissing me! Ack, is this right? It doesn’t feel right!”
We’d gotten the hang of it, of course, that first awkward kiss only igniting a mutual determination to practice until we did. Tonight’s kiss reminds me of the ones after we got it right, but before William relaxed enough to trust in that.
The kiss is tender with a hint of uncertainty, his hands framing my face, his touch light. That kiss waits for undeniable proof that it’s welcome. When I give it, I get a kiss of exploration, firmer but still gentle, William relaxing, his hands sliding down my back as mine encircle his neck. The kiss deepens, his body pressing against mine, my fingers entwining in his hair. Hunger licks through me, his tongue finding mine, his kiss hard and hungry, only to pull back, holding himself in check.
I feed into that hunger, letting him know it’s not unwelcome. I don’t challenge his slowing pace, though. This is too delicious to rush—the tease of it, a flare of passion and then pulling back, finding a gentler pace only to surge again, even the calm tingling with anticipation. It’s like floating on a sun-dappled ocean, waiting for the next crashing wave. Then, he breaks the pattern with a deep, crushing kiss that leaves me gasping and him chuckling raggedly.
When I close my eyes and tilt my face back to his, ready to resume, his fingers glide along the curve of my