Page 92 of Hold Me Tight

He doesn’t push or crowd me with a demand for answers. He stays put, watching me like he’s willing to wait all night if that’s what it takes.

“I don’t know what this is,” I finally admit, my arms wrapping around myself, as if that might hold me together. “You and me. It’s not supposed to feel like I can finally breathe. It’s not supposed to be—” My voice falters, words slipping away.

“Real?” he offers, quieter now.

I blink, throat tight. “Yeah.”

He pushes off the kitchen island and crosses the room with slow, deliberate steps.

“That’s the problem,” I admit. “I’m not afraid of you. And maybe I should be.”

Instead of flinching from my honesty, his hand finds mine before lifting it to his chest and pressing my palm over the steady thud of his heart. “Do you feel that?” His gaze locks on mine. “That’s for you, Callie. Every single beat. All of it.”

I look up, searching his eyes for the truth. I’ve been wrong before. I don’t want to be wrong again.

When he leans in, I don’t hesitate. I meet him halfway, pulled by something that’s both invisible and undeniable.

Our lips brush, lightly at first.

They’re tentative, almost testing.

More of a quiet question suspended in the air.

My breath catches just before he answers with a deeper kiss, one that unfurls slowly, like he’s giving me time to decide, to lean in or pull back. His hand slides to the nape of my neck as his thumb brushes over my skin in a gentle caress. The silent message it conveys is unmistakable.

You’re safe here. Stay with me.

How can I not melt into him?

The kiss deepens, growing fuller, warmer, edged with the kind of aching tenderness that steals all the thoughts from my mind. My hands find the hem of his sweater, curling into the fabric, clinging like I might fall if I let go.

With a groan, he pulls back just enough to search my eyes, almost like he needs to be sure we’re on the same page. He must find what he’s looking for because without a word, he lifts me into his arms. My legs wrap around his waist and my fingers tangle in the back of his hair as I press my lips to his again. This time with more certainty.

He carries me to the bedroom, his mouth never far from mine, each kiss fanning the slow-burning heat that coils deep inside me. Every stroke of his lips, every exhale between us, feels like a promise I didn’t know I needed.

I don’t feel unsure or scared or like I’m walking into something I’ll regret.

I feel desired and cherished in the best way possible.

Instead of fighting it, I let myself fall.

When he sets me down, there’s no rush. No greedy hands or frenzied movements. Just River as he undresses me with deliberate care. One piece at a time, as though every layer he removes isn’t just clothing but another barrier I’ve fought so hard to keep in place.

His fingers skim over the slope of my shoulder before ghosting along the dip of my waist and lingering along the inside of my thigh.

“You’re so damn beautiful,” he murmurs over and over, like the words aren’t just for me, they’re for him too.

As if he can’t quite believe he gets to say them.

With each repetition, something inside me unravels. Maybe it’s the way he says it like it’s the undeniable truth, and not something up for debate. It doesn’t take long before I begin to believe it too.

His mouth finds places I thought had gone quiet forever, coaxing them back to life with a tenderness that feels both brand-new and achingly familiar. The hollow just below my ear where his warm breath sends a shiver racing down my spine. The curve of my hip. The back of my knee. Each kiss is deliberate, a vow whispered against my skin. He doesn’t move like a man who’s trying to prove something. He moves like one who already knows. Like I’m not a body to be conquered but something to be cared for. Something worthy of tenderness.

Arousal pulses low and thick in my core, but it’s layered with something deeper. Something weighty and fragile and real.

I tug at the hem of his sweater, needing him just as bare as I am.

Just as vulnerable.