A grunt punches out of me as he uses all his strength to shove me against the wall, pinning me with his body. Rattling the door frame. He’s leaner than me, but only just. My perfect match in every fucking way.

My other hand catches him by the back of his neck. His skin is blazing to the touch, and his pulse a rapid-fire flutter against the heel of my palm. Our lips slide hotly across one another and our tongues tangle, warring for a dominance that is fleeting and sexy. Yet also oddly reminiscent of our childhood spent chasing after that ever elusive upper hand.

Where our kisses the night of the storm were all sharp teeth and red-hot, whiskey-fueled desperation, this kiss is a swelling wave crawling up my skin. A gust of sea wind sliding along my veins, pricking my senses with an unbearable sense of relief as the salty taste of his lips—the sweet brush of his pierced tongue—awakens something in me I thought was long snuffed out.

I am drowning. Drowning in overwhelming want for this guy. This fucking guy who just told me I was once his everything, when I was sure I was only ever his nothing.

There is no Jack Daniels this time. Nothing to muddle the flavor of Waylon on my tongue—all minty sweet and cigarette smoke. No shroud of darkness to hide behind.

His blunt nails rake along my neck, and I groan at the contrast of his soft lips pressed flush against mine. The warm slip of his tongue. The rough patch of stubble where he missed a spot shaving.

His piercing bumps against the back of my teeth and I flick it with the tip of my tongue. My hand lowers to his ass, his sweats soft under my palms. I dig my nails in, and Waylon arches into me. We’re both hard as steel, lined up together perfectly. As if this is where we were always meant to be.

Our desperation seems to only pick up from there. Our kiss becoming less of a swelling wave, and more of a crashing, battering of seafoam.

I have one hand still cupping the back of his head, fingers knotted in his hair. His ass is still warm in my other palm, and I can feel the towel around my waist begin to loosen and give way.

As much as I don’t want to, I force myself to slow down.

Take a breath.

Pause.

Because as much as I’d love to devour him whole, I have questions. So many fucking questions. And concerns, because we all know what happened last time, and I can’t stand the thought of sending him spiraling once more.

No. If we’re doing this, we’re going to do it right.