She arched into him on instinct, breath hitching, pulse racing like it couldn’t catch up.
He kissed her like breathing didn’t matter anymore.
Like she was the only thing holding him steady.
Deep. Devouring. A wild surrender.
His hands gripped her hips like he needed the proof of her,ofthis, imprinted in his palms.
And when he finally tore himself away, it wasn’t distance.
It was breath.
A pause.
A moment to steady the storm.
Forehead to forehead. Heart to heart.
Their breaths tangled.
“Cometo the Blackwell Charity Gala with me,” he said, voice low, a vow wrapped in a question. Not a suggestion. A claim.
“Your family’s gala?” she asked, barely above a whisper.
He dragged a thumb along her cheek, reverent, unexpectedly gentle for a man so coiled with heat.
“Early spring,” he said. “Come with me. As my date.”
It wasn’t just an invitation.
It was a line in the sand.
Her throat thickened. “You’re sure?” she asked. “I’m not exactly high-society material.”
His mouth curved, slow and sure. Not quite a smile. Something sharper. Something deeper.
He cupped her face in both hands, grounding her. “It doesn’t matter if you’re society material.”
His gaze held hers. Unflinching. “You weren’t made for them.”
His grip tightened, his next words like a truth he’d carried too long. “You were made for me.”
Her heart slammed into her ribs. She didn’t believe in being swept away. Not by promises. Not by lines.
But this? This wasn’t a line.
This felt like him.
Like truth.
His hands slipped lower, tracing her waist, his palms memorizing every curve like a man cataloging what he could no longer afford to lose.
She should’ve pushed back, but she didn’t.
Her thumb brushed his jaw, rough with stubble, anchoring her.
“Okay,” she whispered. “I’ll be there.”
