His eyes swept over my face, and I knew what was about to happen. I could see the resolve in his face. Feel the swift change in the air as the charge between us sparked. He leaned toward me, his eyes never leaving mine.

“I’m not going to kiss you,” I whispered.

“I didn’t ask.”

“Preston, we…”

He tucked my hair behind my ear and moved still closer. “I can’t promise anything. I have nothing in me to promise, but that doesn’t mean I won’t try.”

I swallowed, feeling the walls around me crumbling down.

“Let me be what you need.”

My breath caught, the fight in me diminishing with each spoken word. What was I so afraid of? I reached out, gliding my fingertips over his face and into his hair. Briefly, I thought of how often I’d dreamt of touching his hair, and then his mouth was on mine, and all thought was gone, except him and us and this moment. His lips took control, first soft and careful, and then full of urgency and need. Every unspoken word, every missed opportunity, was pushed into that single kiss.

Preston laid me back on the sofa, his body warm and inviting. My fingers gripped his hair, pulling him closer, and he left my lips, kissing a trail down my chin to my neck. A soft moan of pleasure escaped my lips, and he thrust his hips against mine in answer to my ache. Our bodies moved together, our clothes the only thing keeping us from taking this further.

I tugged his chin up so his lips were back on mine, the kiss growing to a frenzy of passion. His hand slid under the edge of my shirt, gliding over my stomach, before finding my breast. He groaned with pleasure, and I reached down to take his shirt off, eager to touch his impeccably toned chest and stomach. Preston slipped his shirt off and gripped mine, his intentions clear, when reality yanked me from pleasure and threw me into a sea of painful thoughts. I remembered my scars, Preston’s expression when he’d gotten a glimpse of them through my shirt at the pier. I shook my head, feeling myself tumbling deeper into sadness and farther from the moment.

Preston glanced down at me. “We can stop.”

“No.”

“Olivia, you don’t have to—”

I bit my lip, forcing myself to push away the fear and sadness and guilt that riddled my mind and peered back at him. “I don’t want to take my shirt off.”

“Okay,” he whispered.

“And I don’t want you judging that I don’t want to take my shirt off.”

“Okay,” he repeated. I felt his heart beat against my chest, fast and sure and strong. A part of me wanted to disappear, embarrassed and ashamed that I’d yet again shown Preston Riggs just how crazy I was deep inside. But another part, a greater part, felt a surge of happiness that he’d stayed. He knew that I was broken and scarred and more than a little crazy, yet still, he didn’t run. He stayed.