But the pull is so strong now. So impossible to ignore. It’s like my whole body is leaning toward him without my permission, like every cell in me knows something my brain hasn’t figured out yet.
“I don’t understand what’s happening to me,” I whisper.
“Neither do I.” He reaches out, slowly, and brushes a curl away from my face. His fingers are warm, rough with calluses. “But I don’t want it to stop.”
I should pull away. Should go back to my room and lock the door and pretend this never happened.
Instead, I lean into his touch.
His hand cups my cheek, his thumb tracing my cheekbone. He’s looking at me like I’m the only thing in the world that matters. Like he’d burn down mountains just to keep me warm.
No one’s ever looked at me like that before.
“Imani.” My name is a ragged sound on his lips. “Tell me to stop.”
I should. I know I should.
But I’m so tired of being sensible. So tired of protecting myself from things that might hurt. So tired of watching life happen to other people while I stand on the sidelines, too scared to reach for what I want.
I want him.
God help me, I want him.
“No,” I breathe.
Something in his expression breaks. The restraint he’s been holding onto, the control he’s been fighting to maintain—gone.
He doesn’t kiss me. Not yet. He slides out of the chair and onto the floor beside me, one hand still cupping my face, the other settling on my hip. Even through the thin cotton of my nightgown, his touch burns.
“I’ve wanted to do this since the moment I saw you,” he murmurs, his lips hovering inches from mine. “Since you stepped out of that car and started yelling at me for being late.”
“I didn’t yell,” I argue. “I apologized.”
“You should have yelled. I deserved it.”
“You did.”
“I’m going to spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”
Before I can ask what that means, his mouth is on mine.
The kiss is soft at first. Tentative. Like he’s giving me one last chance to pull away, to come to my senses, to run.
I don’t run.
I grab the front of his shirt and pull him closer.
He groans against my mouth—a low, rumbling sound that vibrates through my entire body—and the kiss changes. Deeper. Hungrier. His tongue slides against mine and I open for him, letting him in, letting him take whatever he wants.
His fingers dig into my hip, dragging me closer until I’m practically in his lap. The other hand tangles in my hair, tilting my head back so he can kiss me deeper. I feel overwhelmed. Overtaken. Like he’s trying to crawl inside me and never leave.
I’ve never been kissed like this. Never felt wanted like this. Every man I’ve ever been with made me feel like I wasgiving more than I was getting, like I had to work for their attention, their affection, their scraps of love.
But Tolin kisses me like he’s the one who’s starving. Like I’m the feast and he’s been waiting his whole life to taste me.
I moan into his mouth and he swallows the sound, his hips shifting beneath me. I feel him—hard and thick against my thigh—and my whole body responds, clenching with want.
“Tolin.” I gasp his name as his mouth moves to my neck, his teeth grazing my pulse point, his tongue soothing the sting. “Oh God.”
