Page 83 of His Reckoning

Sawyer goes still for half a second.

“You talk too much.”

And before my brain can catch up to what’s happening, he kisses me.

For a second, I don’t move.

Not because I don’t want to, but because my brain is still trying to comprehend the fact that Sawyer Maccini—controlled, infuriatingly composed Sawyer Maccini—just proved me completely wrong.

His other hand comes up to steady himself against the counter beside me, trapping me in the small space between him and the island. The movement isn’t rough, but it’s deliberate, like he’s making sure I can’t simply slip past him and turn this into another joke.

The kiss is controlled and deliberate like he made the decision seconds ago and committed fully to it.

My first instinct is surprise. My second instinct is to kiss him back harder.

This kiss isn’t quick. It isn’t the kind of impulsive mistake people laugh off a second later. Sawyer kisses like a man who makes decisions and follows through on them.

Slow and intentional, as if he’s testing something. And apparently, the test involves my ability to remember how breathing works.

My fingers curl against the fabric of his shirt before I realize I’ve done it, gripping the material like I need something solid to hold on to. The faint scent of his cologne—clean and sharp and annoyingly familiar by now—makes my head feel a little light.

This was not the plan. There was definitely not a plan that involved kissing the billionaire who lived down the hallway.

Yet somehow, my body seems to have skipped that part of the discussion entirely.

The kiss keeps going long enough for surprise to disappear completely.

Sawyer’s hand shifts slightly against the counter, his shoulders angling closer, the space between us disappearing until I can feel the warmth of him through his shirt.

I can’t pull in a full breath.

Fast enough that I’m fairly certain he can feel it. I was supposed to be the one pushing his buttons tonight. Not the other way around.

For someone who supposedly talks “too much,” I’m suddenly completely out of words.

Neither of us says anything. The soft hum of the refrigerator the only sound besides the faint rush of my own heartbeat.

And the irritating part—the part I will absolutely be blaming him for later—is that somewhere in the back of my mind, a single thought keeps repeating itself.

So, this is what he was holding back.

Which means I may have badly underestimated him.

His mouth leaves mine so suddenly that it takes my brain a second to realize the warmth is gone.

One moment, he was there—close, solid, completely taking over the small space between us.

The next, he’s stepping back, like he realized a second too late what he’d done.

I blink once, then twice.

Sawyer runs a hand through his hair, the movement sharp and uncharacteristically restless. For a man who usually looks like he has every detail of his life perfectly controlled, he suddenly seems … unsettled.

He looks genuinely thrown off.

Which somehow affects me more than the kiss itself.

“That—” he starts, then stops.