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“I can live with that.”

That gets the smallest broken laugh out of her, and I swear to God I could build a life out of that sound.

Then she shakes her head once, looking at me like she still can’t quite believe I’m here. “You came back.”

“I never really left.”

That line is unforgivably corny. I don’t care.

Neither does she, apparently, because the next thing she does is grip the front of my shirt and kiss me hard enough that my head hits the doorframe behind her.

I kiss her back harder. There is nothing careful about it. No hesitation left, no distance, no strategic patience. The relief of being here, of saying it, of not losing her by my own hand, turns everything in me raw and greedy. I back her inside with my mouth still on hers, kick the door shut behind me, and she laughs once into the kiss before the sound breaks apart into something needier.

I get my hands under her thighs and lift her.

She makes a breathless sound and wraps her legs around my hips automatically, like she’s done it a hundred times in her head since the last time we touched. I carry her to the wall because it’s there and because I can’t make myself wait long enough to find the bedroom.

Her hands are in my hair, my shirt, at the back of my neck. Everywhere. She kisses me like she’s still angry and has decided to express it physically, which works very well for both of us.

“You absolute ass,” she whispers against my mouth.

“Yes.”

“You almost left.”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to punish you for that.”

“Please do.”

Her laugh breaks when I grind against her and find how wet she already is through the thin cotton of her underwear. My forehead drops to hers for one second while I try to keep whatever remains of my control arranged in a useful order.

It doesn’t last.

I get my hand under the hem of her shirt, up over bare skin, and the second I find her breast she arches into my palm so sweetly it nearly finishes me right there. I kiss down her throat while my thumb rolls over her nipple, and she bites down on my shoulder to keep from making too much noise.

“Bedroom,” she says.

“Too far,” I pant.

That makes her laugh again, a soft helpless sound that turns into a gasp when I get my hand between us and slip it under her underwear.

She’s soaked.

I close my eyes briefly. “Christ.”

“Don’t get religious on me now.”

I look at her. “You’re still making jokes.”

“You’re still slow.”

That does it.

I carry her the rest of the way to the bedroom because, fine, twelve steps is survivable, and put her down only long enough to get the shirt off her and push her underwear down her legs. She’s on the bed before I’ve fully undressed, watching me with that flushed, hungry focus that always makes me feel like I’m being chosen in real time.

I crawl over her.