His shirt was halfway unbuttoned, his hair messier than usual, and his eyes… God, his eyes. Like fire and ruin and need.
And I couldn't help wondering again—what is he running from? What is he not telling me?
But then his hands slid up my sides, his mouth claimed mine with a feverish kiss, and all that noise in my head—
Gone.
Just him. Just us.
And the wicked way his fingers curled into my hips like he needed to anchor himself or fall apart completely.
He finally slowed.
The fever in his eyes dimmed into something deeper, quieter—still ravenous, still needy, but controlled now. Like he'd remembered he didn't want to ruin me. Not yet. His hands softened on my waist, thumbs sweeping over my skin with a tenderness that only made my chest ache harder.
"I'll run the shower," he murmured, brushing a kiss against my temple. "You should clean up first. You've had a long flight."
I blinked at him, stunned at the shift. "Are you… are you trying to take care of me now?"
