I’ve kissed those lips before and I wonder if I do it again, will she taste like I remember?

Like I’ve never been able to forget?

“I’m not sure about this,” I say, still closing the distance between us. “But I can’t seem to stop wanting it anyway.”

She swallows, her eyes searching mine. She reaches a hand to my face, her fingertips delicately tracing my beard before sliding farther down my jaw and settling against the pulsing place where my neck meets my shoulder, setting fire to my skin. “The thing is…” Her voice is barely above a whisper, yet it still echoes through the dim space, where only her ghosts can hear us. “I’m not sure of myself around you, but I’ve always been sure of you. Nothing in my life but you.”

My hand slides around to that teasing nape, her hair silk between my fingers, and I bend down to capture her lush bottom lip between mine. She doesn’t resist, pressing herself fully against me and sliding her soft tongue against my lips, seeking entry. As if I could stop her. My other hand grips at the back of her shirt, fingering the edges and tracing the warm skin of her waist as I open my mouth to her, devouring. She moans, the sound sending shockwaves south, and I step my leg between hers as if I could press us impossibly closer.

Her hips slide against me in a slow buck and I’m halfway to seeing fireworks from the simple friction. Her fingers reach into my hair, knocking my hat clear off and tangling in the short length, pulling as her talented tongue curls along with mine.

This is what I’ve been missing. For years, what I’ve been trying to replace. Who finds this at eighteen? I’ve tried for a decade to convince myself that this wasn’t what I thought it was—that she wasn’t who I thought she was—and I was crazy to think it was so special between us.

But I’ve kissed other women. I’ve tangled with them and woken up in their beds and none of them, none of that, compared to this one searing kiss.

Shelby pulls back, her harsh breaths echoing in the silence between us. My heart is nearly thudding out of my chest, but it calms when she smiles, wide and gorgeous.

“I should go. I don’t want to,” she admits, her cheeks flushing. “God,” she licks her bottom lip. I lick mine in reaction, glorying in her taste. “I don’t want to leave.”

“Then don’t,” I say, lust making me bold.

She shakes her head, slowly, as if dragging through quicksand. “I … Cam. We can’t do this.”

Her words are like a bucket of ice water poured over my head.

Of course we can’t. What was I thinking?