Page 168 of Reckless Hearts

He stares at me, his blue eyes intense.

“Did you mean it?” he asks.

“I meant every word. I swear on the life of a fairy tern.”

Seb smiles, and it’s like the sun coming out.

He moves into my space.

Seb.

And then he’s kissing me. It’s a sweet, soft kiss, his lips brushing mine. I kiss him back tentatively, ridiculously afraid he will somehow disappear. But then our kiss deepens, slowly becoming an exploration, a relearning of familiar territory.

My eyes prickle with tears because my epiphany on the Oscar stage was so, so right. This iseverything.

Seb and I fit together perfectly.

We always have.

When he pulls away gently, he rests his forehead on mine, and for a few seconds, we just breathe each other in.

Despite the happiness racing inside me now, I need to be honest with him. I’m not completely healed, and I never will be. I will always be a work in progress.

I pull back so I can look at him properly.

“I’m never going to be an easy man to love,” I say softly.

Seb runs a hand through his hair, and that one stubborn tuft stays upright. He looks me in the eye.

“I’m not looking for easy. I’m looking for real,” he says.

“I can give you real,” I promise.

Then we’re kissing again, and this time, it’s a wildfire, consuming everything in its path. It’s months and months oflonging and missed opportunities poured into every touch, every caress.

This time, it’s me doing everything to show this man how much I love him, how I will cherish him forever if he wants me to.

I slide my hands under his T-shirt, and I’m touching Seb’s soft skin, and that fact has tears prickling my eyes again.

I’m overwhelmed by the need to touch him everywhere, to worship him with my hands and my lips. I map the ridges of his ribs, the dip of his spine, cataloging every shiver, every catch in his breath. When my thumb brushes the sensitive spot below his sternum, he arches into me like a bowstring pulled taut.

He’s touching me back, his hands mapping my body as if he’s rediscovering a long-lost treasure.

Then he stops suddenly and catches my wrist, pulling it closer to him so he can see my tattoo clearly.

His breathing changes as his fingers trace the delicate lines of the fairy tern.

He raises his gaze to meet mine, his blue eyes wide.

“I thought you were never going to mar a perfect canvas,” he finally says, his voice hoarse.

“I changed my mind,” I reply.

And then we’re kissing again as we stumble toward my bedroom, discarding clothes as we go.

His fingers fumble with my buttons, but mine aren’t any steadier. We laugh against each other’s mouths as fabric tangles between us. His T-shirt catches on his ears, messing his curls even further, and I have to stop to kiss the exposed skin of his shoulders, his collarbones, unable to resist touching each new inch revealed.

Seb’s body is so familiar, but there are subtle changes—a new scar on the back of his hand, a few freckles across the bridge of his nose—that remind me of the time we’ve lost.