I was desperate for her.

My hands shook.

I broke away long enough to breathe, “I want you,” and then I was on her again.

“I want you, too,” she whispered on an exhale. I felt twenty feet tall, invincible.

We kissed for ages. Her dress had bunched over her hips but otherwise we remained fully clothed. Bizarrely, it was enough. I could’ve kissed her for hours.

I cupped her face in my hands as I devoured her, trying not to think about her long, bare legs wrapped over mine. I didn’t touch her there. I couldn’t. Not if I wanted to maintain my control. Tilting her neck, I bit and soothed her soft skin, drunk on the feel and taste of her. I opened my eyes and her cheeks were flushed, her neck exposed, her eyes still closed. She was completely lost to this, to us. So was I.

I rocked against her body again and my balls tightened. I could come at any second. I’d hardly even touched her and I was going to blow my fucking load in my pants. Judging by the noises she was making, Eilish was just as turned on as I was.

“Please,” she mewled as I bent to her neck once more and moved downward, planting kisses over her cleavage, dying at the sight of her tight little nipples straining against her dress and begging for my mouth. I looked up. Her red hair was spread around her head like a wild halo. She was beautiful. Fierce. Glorious.

I couldn’t help it. I bit down hard on her nipple through her dress and she let out a startled moan. I smiled and sucked the silky fabric into my mouth as she writhed beneath me. Her eyes were open wide now, gazing at me with lust and want. Her chest rose and fell fast, her skin pebbled with goose pimples. I moved my hips again, thrusting my erection against her, and she shook abruptly.

“Bryan!” My name left her lips on a sharp breath.

Fuuuuck.

Eilish’s entire body trembled as I gazed up at her darkly. I bit down on her nipple again. She sighed and I recognized the look of pleasurable contentment on her face.

She’d come.

I made her come without even taking her clothes off. Jesus. She was all docile and compliant when I took her mouth in another kiss, thrusting against her, drawing out her orgasm. I liked her like this—open, needful, soft.

How the hell had I forgotten her? Forgotten this?

I took her into my arms, sitting back on the couch, and she came willingly, curling up in my lap like a satisfied kitten. I couldn’t stop kissing her, my own need to come suddenly less urgent. In that moment, I was too obsessed with her. Usually, she was closed off, locked up tight, but now she was giving me something rare: vulnerability. Trust.

Our kiss was deep at first, but then slowly tapered off into little pecks and nips. Her lips were red and bruised. Her hands trailed over the corded muscles in my neck, down my shoulders and back. Her tender touch was loving, cherishing, gentle.

When was the last time I’d been touched like this?

Had I ever been touched like this?

Christ, I sounded like a teenage girl.

I wanted her.

Her touches made a new fire in my veins, building to a frenzy, and soon I could barely breathe with how badly I wanted her. Although I would have loved nothing more than to carry Eilish upstairs to her room and make love to her for the rest of the night, I couldn’t.

Not yet.

She would feel overwhelmed in the morning. Regretful, even. The idea of her regretting anything that happened between us from here on out terrified me. I wanted this to work, and for that to happen I needed to take it slow. And not just for her. For me, too. A relationship—a sober relationship—was uncharted territory for me. I’d pushed her in the locker room, sent her running away. I wouldn’t make the same mistake tonight. I didn’t want to test her boundaries before I knew for certain what was going on with us.

I needed to leave.

And if I didn’t do it now, I wouldn’t.

“I should go,” I told her between kisses. Her eyes were closed again. I loved how lost she was in me.

“Hmm?”

“It’s late, love. I should go home,” I said again, my voice tight, my words at odds with my actions because I didn’t stop kissing her. My hands squeezed her hips.

“Go?” she murmured and finally opened those beautiful eyes. She tilted her head, confused.

“Yes. Go,” I repeated between clenched teeth.

Eilish seemed to remember herself because she flinched, breaking away and tugging on her skirt. “No, you’re right, it’s late.”

I watched her with a sinking sense of frustration as her beautiful flush of contentment and pleasure became one of embarrassment.

“Hey,” I whispered, cupping her cheek. “I’m not going to push you into doing something you’ll regret in the morning.”

Her eyes flickered back and forth between mine.

Say you want me to stay.

Say you wouldn’t regret it.

Say you never could.

She didn’t. She only nodded and answered in a trembling voice, “Uh-huh. Okay. Sure.”

I paused, just a second, a luxurious moment of hesitation during which I indulged myself in the feel of her under my fingertips—her warmth, her smell. Maybe I would stay. Maybe I’d hike up her skirt and touch her, pull down her underwear and taste her.

Jesus fucking Christ.

My lungs ached when I stood, my every pore repelled by the idea of leaving her now when she was so ready for me. But I had to. I wasn’t the same man I was when we first met. I was an adult now. I was a parent for Christ’s sake. And I was going to show some restraint . . . even if it fucking killed me.