The kiss was wild and slow, soft and desperate—like two people teetering on the edge of something dangerous but unable to turn away.
Cynthia’s fingers clenched Mike’s shirt, and his hands cradled her face with a kind of gentleness she had never expected from him. His lips moved against hers, and for the first time, it didn’t feel like dominance or control. It felt like... yearning.
When he pulled back, his breath mingled with hers, and Cynthia’s eyes fluttered open. Her chest heaved. His hands remained on her cheeks, thumbs brushing her skin as if trying to memorize the shape of her sadness.
Neither of them spoke for a moment.
Mike’s gaze dropped to her lips, then her eyes again. “I’m sorry,” he said, almost in a whisper.
Cynthia blinked at him, stunned.
That word had never come fro
