Page 27 of Whiskey & Wreckage

I squint at him. “You got the notification?”

“Yeah.”

I tilt my head. “You set it up to go to your phone too?”

He doesn’t look even a little sorry. “Yeah.”

I blink. “So you’ve been getting alerts about me. Watching my door.”

He doesn’t flinch. “Making sure you’re safe.”

I should find that weird. Creepy even. But… I don’t. Not when it’s him. Not when he says it with that quiet intensity, like he’s not asking for permission, he’s justbeingwho he is.

It’s oddly reassuring.

“Why?” I ask, softer this time.

He walks over slowly and reaches for my hand. Doesn’t tug, doesn’t pull, just gives me the option.

I let him take it.

He leads me to the couch, and when I sit, he sinks down beside me, our knees brushing.

“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you,” he admits, eyes locked on mine. “Since the night we kissed, you’ve been in my head. Every damn day. I thought giving you space was the right move. You were fresh out of a breakup. I didn’t want to be your rebound.”

I swallow, heart hammering.

“But I don’t want just one night with you, Poppy.” His voice is rough. “I want every night. Every morning. I want the whole thing. And yeah, I know that’s a lot. Even if we hadn’t met under weird-ass circumstances.”

My breath catches. His eyes are so intense, soopen, like he’s letting me see every messy thing he’s been trying to hide.

And then he leans in.

I meet him halfway.

His lips brush mine, soft and hesitant at first, like he’s waiting for me to pull away. I don’t. I lean in harder, and he makes a low sound in his throat that sends a shiver straight down my spine.

And just like that, the kiss turns molten.

His hands find my hips. Mine slide into his hair. He groans again and tugs me into his lap like he can’t stand the space between us. I straddle him instinctively, thighs bracketing his as our mouths crash together, urgent and deep and messy in the best possible way.

His hands slide under my shirt, fingers splaying wide on my back as I press closer. It’s heat and friction and emotion all tangled up in one explosive, can’t-think-can’t-breathe kind of kiss. He pulls back just long enough to look at me, lips swollen,eyes wild, and then he kisses me again, deeper this time, like he’s drowning and I’m the only thing keeping him alive.

My fingers dig into his shoulders. I feel his hands tighten on my waist. My whole body is burning.

And then, slowly, reluctantly, he stills.

The kiss breaks. His forehead presses to mine, both of us gasping for breath.

“I could keep going,” he murmurs. “I want to. God, Iwantto…”

I nod against him. “Yeah. Same.”

“But not like this,” he says, voice low and strained. “Not when I just told you I want this to be real.”

I blink, heart slamming into my ribs.

He strokes my hair gently, tucking a piece behind my ear. “I want to date you. Take our time. Do it right. But don’t mistake that for hesitation.”

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