"Fuck," he breathes against my lips. "Dalla. Fuck."
"Don't stop."
"I should—we should?—"
"Don't. Stop."
I grab the back of his neck and drag him down for another kiss.
This one is slower but no less intense—a thorough exploration of lips and tongue and teeth.
He nips at my bottom lip, and I moan.
The sound seems to unlock something in him.
His hands slide down my sides, tracing the curve of my waist with a reverence that makes my heart ache.
Then lower, over my hips, around to grip the backs of my thighs.
In one smooth motion, he lifts me off my feet.
I wrap my legs around his waist on instinct, and the new position presses us together in ways that make us both gasp.
I can feelallof him now—the hard planes of his chest, the ridges of his abs, the undeniable evidence that he wants this as badly as I do.
"Jaysus," he mutters, his accent thickening. "You're going to kill me."
"What a way to go."
He laughs—actually laughs—and it's such an unexpected sound that I pull back just to see his face.
He's smiling. Really smiling.
It transforms him completely, softening the hard edges, making him look younger and lighter and almost happy.
I want to make him smile like that every day for the rest of my life.
The thought should scare me.
We've known each other for less than a week.
But it doesn't feel like less than a week.
It feels like I've been waiting for him my entire life.
His fingers dig in hard enough to bruise where they're gripping my thighs, and I love it.
Love the proof that he's as affected as I am.
"You have no idea," he mutters between kisses, "what you do to me."
"Tell me."
"I can't—" He breaks off, pressing his forehead to mine. His breath comes in ragged gasps. "I can't think straight when you're near me. Can't focus. Can't be the soldier I'm supposed to be. You've ruined me, Dalla. Completely fecking ruined me."
"Good." I run my hands through his hair, tugging lightly. "Now we're even."
"Even?"
