Page 164 of Before We Were

He sets the bag down and moves closer, each step measured and intent. My pulse pounds a war drum rhythm against my ribs because there’s a burning look in his eyes that’s filled with desire.

“Nora, I’m going to kiss you." His voice carries dangerous certainty.

"Is that a good idea?" The question is a lie, but the truth—that I'm terrified he'll regret this tomorrow—feels too raw to voice.

His thumb traces my lower lip like he's memorizing its shape. "Debatable."

"And if I think it's a bad idea?"

A smirk plays at his mouth. "You're saying if I kiss you right now, you wouldn't kiss me back?" His confidence wraps around me like smoke.

I shake my head weakly. "Yes." It's more breath than word.

His thumb follows my jawline, leaving fire in its wake. When his hand cups my neck, thumb settling over my racing pulse, my eyes flutter closed as he peppers kisses along my throat.

"Are you sure?" he murmurs, voice intimate as a secret.

I nod yes, drawing a dark chuckle.

"Liar," he whispers.

When his lips claim mine, the kiss isn't gentle. It's raw hunger and years of wanting compressed into a single point of contact. My hands find his chest, mapping the solid planes beneath cotton.

"Sixty seconds," he mutters against my mouth.

"What?"

"For sixty seconds, forget everything. It's just you and me.”

"And after that?"

"We sit down and eat, then go to bed. No regrets."

I nod, knowing one minute will never satisfy this hunger, but I let him believe his own lie.

His hands frame my face as he kisses me deeper, tasting of mint and possibility. He holds me while I explore him with desperate hands, learning the man who replaced the boy I once knew. For these precious seconds, I want to know every part of him, to feel the kind of pleasure that reshapes reality. My fingers trace his arms, shoulders, stomach, drawing a sharp breath from him before his hands tangle in my damp hair. Time bends and snaps.

When he pulls back, we're both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together.

"Time's up," he whispers, stepping toward the bedroom door.

But instead of walking away, he pauses, leaning against the frame like it's all that's keeping him upright.

"Fuck this," he says softly then turns to look at me. "I'm done."

My heart stutters. "Done with what?"

"Pretending." The words rumble from his chest, heavy with frustrated desire. He crosses the space between us in measured steps. My back meets the wall as his hands cup my face, eyes locked on mine like he's committing every detail to memory.

"I'm done pretending I don't want every fucking part of you."

The kiss that follows isn't just contact—it's combustion. Slow, devastating heat that spreads through my veins. He watches me when I pull away to remove his shirt. My hands slide over his body, exploring the terrain with trembling fingers. Years of protecting those he loves has sculpted him into something beautiful and brutal—hard ridges of muscle shift under my touch, and raised scars tell stories of a childhood spent standing between a monster and the people he loved most in the world. Every mark is a testament to the way he loves—completely, fiercely, with his whole body as a shield. He was a just a boy when he received most of these scars. A boy who learnt way too young that some loves are worth bleeding for.

My fingers wind into his dark hair, silk-soft strands between my knuckles, and when I tug gently, the groan that rumbles from his chest vibrates through every point where our bodies touch. The sound shoots straight to my core, drawing an answering whimper from my throat. Every brush of his hands feels like breaking free of gravity.

We move together with an instinct deeper than memory, as if our bodies have been rehearsing this dance in dreams, just waiting for reality to catch up. His calloused fingertips trace fire up my thighs, the rough texture against my sensitive skin sending shivers cascading through me. I arch into his touch, craving more friction. When he grips the hem of his shirt that I'm wearing and slowly pulls it off, the air between us changes. His eyes darken, pupils dilating as they take in every inch of newly exposed skin. The possessive heat in his gaze is palpable, molten gold and hunger wrapped into one look that makes my knees weak.

His finger comes to rest on my bottom lip, gently tracing its outline. My breath catches as he slowly trails that finger down, over my chin, following the curve of my neck. His touch is feather-light but leaves a scorching path in its wake. He pauses at my collarbone, eyes locked with mine as his finger continues its journey downward, between my breasts, the simple contact more intimate than anything I've ever felt.

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