Last night’s kiss took the edge off the immediate craving.
It also made it worse.
Because now I know exactly how she tastes when she relaxes into me.
Now I know exactly what sound she makes when I deepen the kiss and slide a hand up her spine.
“Knight,” she says softly.
“Yeah?”
“This feels like a bad idea,” she whispers. “In a really… compelling way.”
I swallow hard. “Yeah,” I say. “It does.” My hand loosens on her wrist, sliding down to lace our fingers instead. Her palm is warm and slightly damp, grip tightening around mine like she’s anchoring herself too.
“We’re supposed to be training,” she reminds me, a tremor under the teasing.
“Technically,” I say, “I’m testing how you respond under pressure.”
She huffs out a breathy laugh. “You’re such a liar.”
“Maybe,” I admit. “You want me to stop?”
Her eyes search mine. There’s nervousness there.
And trust. And something bright and reckless that mirrors the wildness in my own chest. “No,” she says, barely audible.
That’s all it takes.
I lean in, closing the last sliver of distance, and kiss her.
It’s different from last night.
Less careful, more inevitable.
She makes a small, surprised sound and then leans into it like she’s been waiting for this exact moment. Her free hand comes up to the front of my shirt, fingers curling into the fabric. I feel the tug all the way through me.
I angle my head, deepening the kiss, our mouths fitting together in a practiced wrong we’ve somehow been rehearsing with every argument and glance for years.
She tastes like coffee and adrenaline.
My world narrows to the slide of her lips, the warmth of her body pinned between me and the wall, the way she rises onto her toes to get closer.
I drop the hand braced beside her head, sliding it to her waist, fingers splaying across her hip. I can feel the heat of her skin through the thin cotton of her shirt.
She presses closer, closing what little space was left between us. Our bodies line up, chest to chest, hip to hip. The contact is a shock and a confirmation—yes, this is real, yes, she wants this too, yes, I’m not alone in this free fall.
I keep the kiss right on that razor’s edge—hungry but not frantic, hot but not out of control.
Her hand leaves my shirt, sliding up to my neck, fingers threading into the hair at the nape. She gives a small, unconscious tug that sends a bolt of heat straight down my spine.
I groan into her mouth.
She smiles against my lips.
Cocky.
Infuriating.
