I don’t know who moves first.
One second I’m pressed against his chest, safe and wrapped and almost calm. The next, I’m tilting my head back, and his mouth is there, a breath away.
“Tally,” he says, warning and plea threaded together. It hits me that he calls me by my full name maybe to keep me at arm’s length.
“You already broke the no-touch rule,” I whisper. “Might as well commit the crime.”
Something snaps in his eyes.
He closes the distance.
The first brush of his mouth is soft, testing, like he’s giving me one last chance to pull away. I don’t. Instead, I fist my hand in his shirt and haul him closer, opening under the second press, letting him in.
The kiss is nothing like the others we’ve stolen—less anger, more heat. Less punishment, more…want. Deep and slow and devastating.
His hand leaves my hair, slides down to cup the back of my neck, thumb at my jaw, angling my head exactly where he wants it. Histongue sweeps against mine, and a sound I don’t recognize falls out of me, low and needy.
He answers it with a curse against my mouth, shifting, rolling us so I’m on my back and he’s half over me, braced on one forearm, careful not to crush.
“Tell me to stop,” he rasps.
I look up at him, lips swollen, heart hammering, every nerve ending lit.
“Fuck that,” I say.
Something dark and satisfied flashes across his face.
His hand drags down from my neck, over my collarbone, to the hem of my T-shirt. He hesitates there for half a heartbeat, eyes searching mine.
I nod, throat tight.
The touch when he lifts the shirt is almost reverent, callused fingers skimming my ribs as he pushes the cotton up, up, over my head. Cool air hits my skin, followed by the much better heat of his gaze.
“Jesus, Tally,” he mutters.
I want to hide. I want to preen. I settle for staring at the ceiling, trying to breathe.
His palm slides up my stomach, slow and sure, until it cups the weight of my breast through my bra. My back arches on instinct, the contact sending a bolt of pleasure straight down between my thighs.
“Okay?” he murmurs.
“Do you seriously have to ask?” I gasp.
His mouth curves, wicked and fond all at once, and then he’s bending his head, replacing his hand with his lips.
The first press of his mouth over the lace is almost too much, sensation sparking everywhere at once. When he finds the peak through the thin fabric and flicks his tongue, my hips jerk.
“Bran,” I breathe.
He hums, the vibration sending another shockwave through me. One hand works at the bra clasp, impatient; when it gives, he pushes the cups aside, baring me entirely to his gaze.
I want to make a joke about the lighting. About how this is absolutely not my most flattering angle. Nothing comes out but a broken little noise when he looks up at me through his lashes, eyes gone nearly black.
“So fucking beautiful,” he says, like it’s a fact, like he’s reciting a line from a report.
Then he ducks his head and puts his mouth on me properly.
Heat lances through me, sharp and sweet. His tongue is slow and deliberate, tracing circles, then sucking lightly, then harder when I gasp and clutch at his shoulders. His hand slides down, fingers spanning my hip, thumb stroking the soft skin there, grounding me.
