Chapter 11: When He Almost Gave In
The storm didn't end.
It softened into a steady rain that tapped against the motel roof like restless fingers.
Inside the room, Isla and Rafe still stood too close.
Too aware.
Too unwilling to step back.
Her hands were still in his jacket. His arms were still around her. Neither of them pretended this was an accident anymore.
Rafe inhaled slowly, as if grounding himself. "We shouldn't."
The words were there.
The conviction wasn't.
Isla lifted her eyes. "Then why haven't you let go?"
His jaw flexed.
Because letting go meant stepping back into a world where she didn't exist like this.
"I don't trust myself," he said.
Something about the honesty in his voice made her chest ache.
"I'm scared of you," she whispered.
His brow furrowed. "Of me?"
"Of what you make me feel." She swallowed. "Of how fast I stop thinking when you're close."
His hand slid up her back before he could stop it.
The warmth of his palm through the thin fabric made her breath catch.
"That's exactly why this is dangerous," he said.
"Then why does it feel like the only thing that's real?"
He didn't answer.
He lowered his forehead to hers.
Their noses brushed.
A breath.
Another.
So close.
Isla's lips parted without permission.
Rafe froze.
For one terrible second, she thought he would pull away.
Instead, he whispered, "If I start, I don't know if I can stop."
"Then don't stop," she breathed.
His restraint shattered.
His mouth found her cheek first—hesitant, testing—then the corner of her lips.
Not a kiss.
A promise trembling on the edge of becoming one.
His hands framed her face.
Her fingers slid into his hair.
Their lips finally met.
Slow.
Careful.
As if both of them were afraid of what they were waking.
The kiss deepened.
Not desperate.
Not rushed.
Exploratory.
Intimate.
The kind of kiss that asks instead of takes.
When they pulled apart, their breathing was uneven.
Rafe rested his forehead against hers.
"We can't do this," he said.
But he didn't move.
Neither did she.