I start to turn away, overwhelmed, but he catches my hand, gently. His fingers curl around mine like they belong there.
“If you don’t want to kiss me, that’s fine,” he says, voice rough with restraint. “But if you think I’m joking? Let me prove I’m not.”
Suddenly, it’s not about money or debts or gratitude. It’s aboutme. About this strange, electric thing that sparks between us whenever our eyes meet.
So I do something reckless.
I rise onto the balls of my feet, heart hammering, and kiss him.
It’s soft. Tentative. My first kiss.
His lips are warm, firm but unmoving, like he’s waiting for something. Like he’s giving me space to change my mind.
It sends a strange wave through me: part disappointment, part awe.
He’s not pushing. He’s not claiming. He’s just there. Letting me be the one to choose and to feel the weight of this moment. It’s my first kiss, my first step toward something I don’t even have words for yet.
I pull back, breath caught somewhere in my throat, and for a second I wonder if I imagined all of it.
My cheeks are burning. I drop my gaze, ashamed.
Then his fingers lift my chin.
I see the hunger in his eyes, the desire so real and raw.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I kiss him again. This time with a little more pressure. A little more need.
Without hesitation, he kisses me back.
His lips crash into mine with barely leashed hunger. It’s urgent, possessive, like he’s been holding back for far too long and can’t anymore. There’s no teasing now, no hesitation. Just pure, raw desire coiled tight beneath the surface and finally allowed to break free.
His mouth claims mine with a purpose that leaves no room for doubt. It’s not messy, but it’s not gentle either. It’s all fire and focus, like he’s memorizing the shape of my lips, branding me with every sweep of his tongue, every low sound he makes against my mouth. Like he’s been starving and I’m the only thing that’s ever satisfied him.
My breath hitches. I clutch at his jacket, overwhelmed. Dazed. Wanting more and terrified of it all at once.
But he doesn’t push. He devours, and yet somehow still waits. I feel the tension trembling in him, the restraint he’s barely holding on to.
Somehow, knowing he could lose control but doesn’t? That he’s choosing to give me this power?
That makes it even harder to breathe.
His hand rises, feather-light, to cradle my cheek. His thumb brushes against my skin, and I feel it all the way down to my knees.
I melt into the kiss, nervous but unable to stop myself. Every second is a discovery. The way he tastes, the way he feels and the way his breath catches when I sigh against his mouth.
When we break apart, it’s only for a moment. A pause in which the air between us crackles.
"Cazzo," he curses. Again, you pick up a word or two working here, so I know exactly what he just said. Heat rises to my cheeks, but somehow, I can't find it in me to find his swearing unattractive. How could I? He's everything.
And he's kissingme.
Little old me, with nothing to offer.
But he seems to think differently.
"You should leave," he breathes against me. "Because, if you don't, I won't be able to stop myself next time."
"Stop?" I blurt. "You mean, like... s-sex?"
