He glanced at the clock. Ten seconds. His eyes raked over me like he was memorizing every detail of my face and body. I couldn’t help but do the same to him. This was it. He was leaving.

“I choose you. And if I have to let you lose me so you can save yourself, then I’ll hold on enough for the both of us. That’s how much I love you.”

Time was up.

He gave me one last, longing look and walked toward the door. My heartbeat matched the rhythm of his steps. What if this was really it? The last time I saw him? What if I never had the chance to hold him again? To see the light in his eyes when he smiled or the way his lips formed the words I love you? What if this was the last…everything?

My soul screamed in protest and ripped her claws into whatever was left of my defenses.

“Jackson!” I cried out as his hand reached the doorknob.

He turned, and everything I felt was so clearly etched on his own face that I whimpered.

“Kiss me.”

He jolted forward but froze when I lifted a finger.

“This doesn’t change anything. We are not together. And I know that makes this a really selfish, really screwed-up request. But…this trip…” I blocked out the D word and lifted my chin. “I want one last kiss.” My hand fell to my side.

“This isn’t our last kiss.” In four strides, his hands were in my hair and his mouth was on mine.

Home. Everything in my body sang at his touch. He felt so right under my fingertips as they laced behind his neck.

I opened under him, then moaned as his tongue curled around mine with swirling, deft strokes. He kissed me so thoroughly, so deeply, that I couldn’t remember why I’d ever stopped. Every time he moved to soften the kiss, to pull back or pause, I kissed him harder, pulled him closer. This couldn’t end. Not yet. Not while I felt alive and whole.

“Morgan,” he growled when I reached for the hem of his shirt and slid my hands under it. I was met with smooth, soft, warm skin over tight, hard muscles. I gripped his waist and tugged, bringing him hard against me—oh, and he was. His arousal pressed into my stomach, and my hand wrapped around it through the fabric of his shorts.

Fire. I was on fire. My skin flushed, my breasts swelled, and my thighs dampened. He was a triple raspberry lemon drop, sweet on my tongue and going straight to my head, and I wanted more. I would always want more when it came to Jackson. Touching him had been a bad idea, but it felt so damn good.

“Fuck,” he groaned against my mouth as I stroked him. “Morgan, baby, you have to stop. You’re killing me.”