Because not kissing me would be a crime.
He paused and tilted my chin up. His eyes locked on mine, and his thumb brushed along my bottom lip.
I could tell by how he held me still that he was hesitating.
And what was I doing? Clearly not thinking as much as he was.
I was just standing there, heart pounding against my ribs, trying not to show how badly I needed him to do it already.
To stop pretending.
To stop thinking.
To stop holding back.
Kiss me.
Kiss me.
Kiss me.
And then, finally, he did.
His lips parted against mine, slow enough that hewantedme to feel every second of it.
He kissed me in a way that burned. His tongue brushed against mine as if he’d been waiting weeks to taste me, his lips moving against mine as if he wanted to memorize the shape of my mouth, to find the exact spot where I sighed into him.
It wasn’t fast. It was slow, and slow meant intention. Slow meant there was nothing accidental about this. Slow meant Marco knew exactly what he was doing, and he still couldn’t stop. I could taste the frustration on his tongue—the irritation and the ache and all the things he’d been swallowing down for months. All the things he refused to name. It bled into me.
Then, before I could get my brain to catch up to my body, his hand slid lower. His fingers curled around my waist, pulling me closer, until my body was flush against his.
I gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed it down as if it were his. He was collecting every sound, every inhale I made, like proof. Proof I wanted him.
He didn’t give me a second to catch up. Didn’t give me a second to breathe. He kissed me deeper, as if every press of his lips was a punishment I deserved. Maybe he was furious it felt this good; that no matter how much he tried to keep me at arm’s length, this was inevitable.
His tie was still wrapped around my fingers, caught between us. Proof I’d pulled him into this. Proof he’d let me. He mumbled something under his breath—something irritated that I didn’t catch—as he backed me closer to the bedroom
When he sat me down on the edge of the bed, he nudged my legs further open with his knee.
The moment his lips found my neck, my nails found his back. I shifted underneath him, pushing him off me. When he pulled away, I lifted myself from the mattress and moved onto his lap, both legs straddling his.
His eyes were narrowed, watching me carefully.
I smirked, rolling my hips slightly, just to see how much patience he actually had. Not much. His fingers dug into my thighs, his grip bruising, like he was telling mewithout telling mehow close he was to flipping us back over.
I leaned down, lips barely brushing his.
And then I felt the bed move.
The entire bed had buckled beneath us.
I stilled, and Marco did too. His hands were still on my hips, and my hands were still pressed against his chest. I wanted to laugh. This had never happened before.
The mattress tipped at an angle, dipping to the side, where the frame had given out beneath us. Slowly, I looked down at him, lips parting.
He was already looking at me.
I smirked. “You breakallthe furniture you fuck on?”
