He had startled her. She had been so engrossed in the movie, she hadn’t sensed his approach until they were nose to nose. He stopped with a millimeter of space between the tips of their noses, not wanting to just plant one on her. Well, he wanted nothing more than to just plant one on her, but it was possible this kiss would be unwelcome. So he paused. Assessed.

Maybe he had cartoons on the brain, but her face looked like an illustration of the concept of desire. Her cheeks pinkened and her pupils dilated as he watched. Her mouth formed a little O of shock.

She had not exhaled. He moved forward a bit more but turned his head, so his lips were barely resting on her cheek. “Breathe,” he whispered.

He felt the hot, rushing exhalation against his own cheek. Hot Cheetos and her. Which should have been ridiculous but was instead very, very sexy.

“This is a bad idea,” she said, but one of her hands floated up and hovered over one of his cheeks.

“I know.” Speaking of cats, he felt like one, seized as he was with the desire to press his cheek, his chin, his whole face into her touch. He held himself back, barely.

“I’m only in Moonflower Bay for ten more months,” she breathed.

“I know.” His face was on fire. He could feel each individual strand of beard hair, electrified like a wire, straining toward her touch.

“We’re friends. We just upgraded.” The hand came down.

“I know,” he bit out, and damn. Live wires was right—it was only the lightest touch of fingers on his beard, but she might as well have grabbed his dick directly.

She was right, though, about all of it. Evie Abbott was not for him. Not even for ten months. If they did this, when she left, he would not survive. That sounded like hyperbole, but—

The girl kissed him.

Just as he was about to pull away, she clamped her hands on his cheeks and planted her mouth on his. Opened her mouth.

He had no defenses against this.

Like everything about his reintroduction to Evie—swimming with her, watching her braid her hair—it was familiar, yet not. The hands were the same, one planted on either cheek, like she always used to do. It was like she was hanging on, making sure he wasn’t going anywhere—spoiler alert: as ill-advised as this was, he wasn’t going anywhere—and he loved it now as much as he had then. But his beard under her fingers reminded him that he was older. They were older.

Some things were the same, but some things were different.

Same: The lips. Sweet and soft. Different: The pressure. So much more of it. She explored, her tongue sliding against his in a way that made him groan. There was a self-assurance here, a taking of the lead, that was new.