"You really need to stop touching me," her voice hitches, only solidifying this move was a mistake.
The second I pressed myself against her, I knew I'd made an error. It's already taken great strength to contain myself, knowing she's in the same town, living on the same road, with only acres separating us. Eliminating any space was never a good idea. I can't think straight when she's this close—never could.
"Friends touch each other." I make another fatal mistake, digging a deeper hole as her scent wraps around me.
"London." Her hands push against my chest, but there's no real fight behind them.
My hands find her wrists, circling them gently, feeling her pulse race beneath my thumbs. "Is it because you don't like it?" My voice comes out rougher than intended, barely above a whisper.
Her breath catches, and for a moment, we're suspended in the space between what we are and what we could become. The air between us feels electric, charged with everything we're not saying. Then, with the lift of her delicate hand, I get an answer. Her fingers hesitate before finally settling on my jaw, and the six years we spent apart suddenly collapse into nothing with her wordless answer. I revel in the way her fingertips flit over the stubble, her touch achingly familiar as they trace over new lines that hadn't existed the last time they were there. I lean into her with careful reverence, my hand gliding up the side of her neck as I rest my forehead against hers, and for a few stolen moments, we share the same breath. In the space between heartbeats, neither of us looks away, too afraid of shattering this fragile connection hanging between us.
With the distance between us eliminated, our bodies quickly remember the closeness our minds still fear. Her eyes drop to mymouth, and mine follow suit, fiending to remember the way they feel pressed against mine. Unable to fight the pull, I close the distance, my lips dusting over hers with such delicacy I'm not sure I didn't just imagine it. I pause and swallow hard as a distant voice echoes reminders of why I should pull away, but I don't. I don't want to stay away, but more than that, I don't think I can.
The next thing I know, her fingers are curled into the fabric of my shirt, and there's no more question of if my lips touched hers. Her mouth covers every inch of mine, and her soft, full, smooth lips, which I've longed to feel again, breathe new life into me, making me believe that we can get through this because the love we once shared isn't dead. It was never dead. We were lost—I was lost—but our love remained, changed but not broken, because that's what love does: it endures. With her fists twisted in my shirt, anchoring herself to me, she deepens our kiss, her tongue seeking entrance that I readily grant, desperate to taste.
The warm notes of bourbon oak and the subtle vanilla sweetness still linger on her tongue. My first taste is familiar and intoxicating, each gentle glide of her tongue against mine leaving traces of amber warmth, its heat spreading from her lips through my body, a slow, pleasant burn that has nothing to do with the proof and everything to do with the girl.
My other hand drifts to the curve of her hip, but before it can settle, an exterior door slamming down the corridor breaks our mouths apart. For a moment, neither of us move, both still processing everything that one kiss held. It was all there—the love that never fully died, the hurt that never completely healed, and the question neither of us has yet to ask: can we find our way back to each other? Or perhaps, the better question: does she want me back?
"I'm sorry." Her hand presses me back this time with a force that wasn't there the first time. She wipes her mouth in a move that pisses me off before adding, "You have a girlfriend."
I can't tell if she genuinely believes Madison is my girlfriend or if the idea of her holding that title is easier for her to latch onto. Ididn't entirely disagree with the words she tossed at me the first time I tried to correct her:'If you're with someone, then you're with them.' I agreed with it to an extent, but it's the title part I firmly disagree with. If anything, titles mean more now. There's a greater emphasis on compatibility, values, and future plans when one exists. At this stage in life, girlfriend turns into fiancée and, eventually, wife. So, no, that was never going to be Madison, but to her credit, it was never going to be anyone. But something tells me Laney is familiar with the dynamic.
"And you have a boyfriend," I say pointedly. She wants to cast stones and make me out to be a villain, because that guy is easier to keep at arm's length. Too bad. After that kiss, I know her heart. It doesn't belong to Noah Donovan. It never has, and it never will. She rolls her lips and diverts her gaze. She was always shit at lying. "If Noah is not your boyfriend, why is he here?"
"I don't have to explain anything to you, London. He's a good friend," she defends, and it needles at my annoyance. I practically begged for his help that night. I'm just as guilty, but it doesn't change the fact that he wants more. "A friend that wants to fuck you."
This time, she doesn't look away, and I keep my hand firmly planted on the column behind her, my stomach in knots, knowing what she's about to say.
"You don't have the right to decide who I invite into my bed."
"You slept with him, didn't you?" I know it's true, but I need to hear her say it. My legs feel weak in a way they have no right to. I fucking hate that I did this to us. She's quiet, and I press on, needing to feel the pain of her confirmation. "How long?"
"London, stop. You don't get to do this. You left. What did you expect would happen? Did you expect me to stay celibate for the man who told me to stop writing him in prison? The man who stopped fighting for us?"
"You could have chosen anyone, and you chose him," my voice cracks with raw emotion.
She was mine, and he always wanted her, and while I knewLaney loved me, jealousy and doubt are natural human reactions. There were times when I thought maybe she wanted him too. It may have been small, but in my mind, it existed all the same, and hearing that he had her the way that was only supposed to ever be mine is a blow to a heart I wasn't sure existed anymore.
"Laney, I swear to God, I was never trying to hurt you. Why can't you see that?"
"London, I don't know you anymore. The guy I knew wouldn't have chosen this for us."
"Tell me that kiss just now meant nothing. Tell me you didn't feel anything."
"What do you want from me, London? It can't possibly be that you want me back when you've asked me to leave more than once." Her eyes hold mine, and the fear that's gripped my heart for years returns. I want to tell her, but not here, not like this. She misreads my pause for something it's not. "I can't do this with you," she snaps, pushing me aside.
"Laney, wait. Can we talk?" I rush out.
"Oh, now you want to talk. Are you kidding me right now, London?" she says, running her hands through her tousled hair.
"I've wanted to talk to you since the second you showed up?—"
"Could have fooled me." She crosses her arms dramatically.
"I deserve that," I admit. I'm the ass that pushed her away. "But I promise it's true. I only said what I did because we shouldn't talk."
"And you don't feel that way anymore?" she questions pensively.
