Barely there.
Like we’re both afraid to spook it.
Then he exhales against my lips, a low, rough sound, and his other hand finds my waist, fingers sinking into my skin.
The kiss deepens.
Sparks explode behind my eyes. Heat licks through me, coiling low and tight. The world narrows to the slide of his mouth, the way he tastes—coffee, mint, and something dark and unmistakablyhim—and the low rumble in his chest that sounds like he’s been waiting for this as long as I have.
I shift closer, half climbing onto the couch without thinking, one knee beside his hip, straddling, my hand curling over his shoulder. He’s solid under my fingers, all lean strength and coiled tension.
He kisses me like he’s been holding back for years.
Like I’m something he’s denied himself for a long, long time.
It’s addictive.
It’s terrifying.
It’s perfect.
Then he breaks away, breathing hard, forehead pressed to mine. “Fuck,” he whispers.
“Good ‘fuck’ or bad ‘fuck’?” I pant.
“Dangerous ‘fuck.’” He gently untangles us, his hands lingering for a second longer than they should. He sets me back on my feet like I’m made of glass and sin.
I sway.
He steadies me. “I told you,” he says hoarsely. “Once I start…”
He doesn’t finish.
He doesn’t have to.
My body is already filling in the blanks.
I could push.
I want to.
God, do I want to.
But there’s something fragile in his eyes. Not fear of me. Fear of himself. Fear of losing control at exactly the wrong time, in exactly the wrong situation.
We’re being hunted.
We’re exhausted.
We’re in a cabin in the woods with only one bed and a very bad idea sizzling between us.
So—for once—I pull back. “Okay,” I say softly. “We hit pause.”
His eyes close briefly, like he wasn’t expecting that.
“We’re not stopping,” I add, because I have to be honest. “I’m not. Whatever this is? You and me? It’s not going away. But… we can take a breath. For now.”
He looks at me like I just handed him oxygen. “Sleep,” he says quietly. “Please.”
