When he kissed her, it was slow—like rose petals brushing across a thorned garden. She could've wept. To be needed like this, to be loved this way—it unraveled something deep inside her.
He might have forgotten her, but his hands remembered. They remembered the tenderness, the love, every aching trace of who she had been to him.
His fingers drifted along the curve of her stomach, lingering just beneath her breast. She moaned into his mouth, leaning in, craving more—'craving him'.
Sensing her need, he gripped her waist and lifted her, letting her legs wrap around him as her hands slid over his shoulders.
The kiss deepened—sweet, searing, addictive. Draven couldn't let go. 'God,' how had he forgotten this? How had he forgotten 'her'?
As he kissed her, he ached to remember it all: her laughter, her light, even her pain—all the pieces she'd ever given him. But all he found inside was blankness.
