“Beatrice,” he whispers, dragging me back from my spiraling thoughts.

My eyes find his. “Hmm?”

Our gazes tangle, then draw us closer. I breathe him in, the scent of sage and cedarwood and foggy air. When I exhale, it’s deeper, a little easier.

“It’s me,” he says, as if somehow Jamie knows I need the reminder that I’m not repeating history. That with him, I’m transposing what was done to me nearly two years ago.

Back then, I thought I’d found love, and it turned out to be a lie. Now I’m living a lie that has no chance of turning out to be love. That’s what I want, and that’s what I get with Jamie—boundaries and trust, maybe even a little friendship. With him, I’m safe.

As I press on tiptoes, clutching him for courage, I wonder if what we share, this inversion of what broke me apart, might be the very thing that puts me back together.

My lips brush his, faint and soft. He draws in a quick, rough breath, retreating so slightly, I almost miss it. But I notice. And I wait. Patient. Still. Jamie’s gaze wanders my face, his hands slide up my throat, and air rushes out of me, following the path of his touch.

When his fingertips graze my cheeks, I shut my eyes, lost as his mouth meets mine again, deeper and reverent. He sighs as I release his shirt and wrap my arms around his waist, holding him close, chest to chest, pounding heart to pounding heart. I taste the green tea he drank with dinner, the whisper of peppermint, something warm and dizzying and perfectly him.

My legs turn liquid as his tongue sweeps against mine. All I’ve known of Jamie is his restraint, his control, yet here he is, tasting me, groaning roughly, losing himself in me, even for just a fleeting moment. It makes tears prick my eyes.

I was right. And I was wrong. Kissing Jamie, I feel that while I’m safe . . . I’m also in danger. No, he won’t hurt me the way I’ve been hurt before, but he might make me believe again. In something I lost. Something I wasn’t sure I’d ever feel again. Something I’m terrified to hope for and risk the chance of those hopes being dashed.

His hands drift from my face, down to my hips, tugging me close against the hard, heavy length of him, straining against his slacks. My head falls back as his lips trail my throat, as his touch drifts up my ribs and his thumbs sweep the tender curve of my breasts, teasing closer and closer to my nipples. I lean into his touch, pressing every part of me into every part of him.

“Please,” I whisper.