I wanted to kiss him. I wanted to kiss him so badly, all of the worry, the indecision I’d held on to these last couple of months just . . . disappeared. There was no room in my head for anything other than getting Cole to kiss me.
Slowly, my hands came off my sides, and with my eyes locked on his face, I twisted my wrists in a slight circle.
My signal.
Cole watched my hands as I twirled once, then twice, before he swallowed hard. “Poppy.” His voice was rough and deep. “Are you sure?”
I nodded. “Kiss me, Cole.”
In two huge strides, he erased the distance between us. His hands dove into my damp hair as his palms pressed against my jaw. Then his lips molded to mine.
A zing shot through my body as his tongue stroked across my lower lip, coaxing my mouth open. When my lips parted, his tongue swept inside. And he tasted so good—better than anything I could ever make in this kitchen.
I moaned into his mouth as his tongue started exploring. My hands gripped tight to his shirt, holding on as his hands left my face and banded around my back.
Cole pulled me so close that every inch of him was pressed up against me. His solid chest. His muscled thighs. His cock straining beneath his jeans.
With his mouth devouring mine, Cole sparked a fire inside of me that had been only embers for years. The burn was so hot, I could barely stand it. So with desire in charge, I kissed Cole with everything I had. I held him closer, pulling and sucking him in, but it wasn’t enough. I thrust my hips forward, grinding against his, hoping for relief, but the friction only fanned the flames.
I released Cole’s shirt and ran my hands down his backside, squeezing hard when I reached his perfect ass. When Cole groaned, the rumble vibrated down my throat, making me squeeze again, this time even harder.
One second his tongue was working magically against mine, and then it was gone. He broke away from me, panting for breath as I did the same.
“Fucking hell, woman.” He dropped his forehead to mine. “God, I could kiss you forever.”
My lungs heaved as I tried to fill them with air.
Cole’s hands smoothed away the hair that had fallen onto my cheeks, pushing it back behind my ears. “But we’d better slow down.”
He was right—we should slow down—but I missed his lips. I wanted them back so badly I nearly cried.
Because that was the best kiss I’d ever had in my life.
My entire life.
No man, not even Jamie, had ever kissed me with that much passion.
A surge of emotion exploded in my chest and came out of my mouth as a sob. Between the intensity of the kiss and the realization that I’d just broken free from my husband, I couldn’t contain the cry that followed. Or the one after that. Or the tears welling in my eyes.
I slapped a hand over my mouth as the first tear fell. And when the second dripped down my cheek, Cole pulled me into his arms.
“I’m sorry,” I cried, burrowing my face into his shirt.
I was sorry for crying after our incredible kiss. I was sorry for ruining our intimate moment. But mostly, I was sorry that I wasn’t sorry for kissing Cole.
I was letting Jamie go.
And it broke my heart all over again.
“It’s okay,” Cole whispered into my hair. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. Let it out.”
With his permission, I didn’t try to fight the pain. I cried into his shirt, wetting his shoulder with my eyes and damp hair. I soaked up the comfort of his arms until I was strong enough to stop.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered into his shirt before leaning back and wiping my eyes.
He placed his palm on my cheek. “Never be sorry.”
“I don’t regret that kiss. Please know that. It’s just . . . hard.”
“I know.”
I looked up into his eyes, so kind and compassionate, and nearly cried again. He was a dream. How had I found a man who was so understanding and patient, who saw me so clearly? It was nothing short of a miracle.
I inhaled a shaky breath, holding it for a long moment as I reined in my emotions. When I blew out the breath, I let my shoulders collapse, then stood tall.
I hated crying in front of others. I hated feeling weak and pathetic. I hated that I felt so out of control of my emotions. For five years, I’d felt out of control, and every time I started to take back that control, it so often ended with me in tears.
I was exhausted. The tears were exhausting.
I didn’t want to cry anymore. I didn’t want to be sad anymore. I didn’t want to hurt.
When would it go away? When would I find the strength to put the pain in the past and stop letting it tarnish the present?
Disgusted with myself for ruining what had been a magical moment with Cole, I shook my head. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“Look at me,” he ordered and my eyes went to his. “No apologies. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met. A couple of tears are no big deal.”
I scoffed, waving my hand at his shirt. “I was bawling, Cole. That wasn’t just a couple of tears. You’re practically soaked. I don’t think that constitutes being strong.”
He stepped closer, his palm again finding my cheek. “Crying doesn’t make you weak, Poppy. Sometimes, it takes more strength to let go than it does to keep it all inside.”
I didn’t know if that was true, but the words felt wonderful as they settled in my heart. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
His hand fell away from my face and I motioned toward the hallway. “I’d better go.”
“Okay.” He followed me into the living room where I grabbed my purse and backpack from his camel leather couch. “Are we still on for the paint fight on Sunday?”
“Yeah. I’ve got everything ready to go.
