My pulse was still racing when his forehead rested against mine, both of us breathing like we had just run for miles instead of simply standing in a hotel room.
But nothing about this felt simple.
Nothing about River had ever felt simple to me.
His hands were still on me—one firm at my waist, the other cradling the back of my head—and the way he held me made it very clear that he had no intention of letting go anytime soon.
"River…" I whispered, though I wasn't even sure what I meant to say.
Stop?
Slow down?
Don't stop?
I didn't know anymore.
His eyes searched my face, dark and stormy, jaw tight like he was fighting something inside himself. For a moment, I thought he might step back. Thought he might regain that iron self-control he was so famous for.
Instead, his thumb brushed across my lower lip—slow, deliberate—and the tiny gesture shattered whatever fragile composure I had left.
"You're wearing his color," he said roughly.
