Olivia's POV
He pulled back just an inch, his gaze dropping to mine, his thumb still stroking the underside of my wrist. His eyes were dark, searching, and for the first time in weeks, the distance between us felt like it might actually be bridgeable—or like it was about to swallow us both whole.
"Olivia," he murmured against my skin, his voice thick.
The air in the kitchen shifted, the physical pain of the burn drowned out by a sudden, electric tension that had been building for weeks. My breath hitched as Lennox looked up from my hand, his eyes dark with a hunger that mirrored my own.
He didn't say another word. He stepped into my space, his large hands gripping my waist and hoisting me up onto the marble counter. I didn't fight him; I pulled him closer, my legs instinctively wrapping around his hips. When his lips crashed against mine, it wasn't soft or apologetic—it was a collision of all the words we hadn't said, all the resentment, and all the desperate longing.
