My heart rate picked up. "What about it?"
"I don't want to rush." His other hand found my hip, pulled me a step closer. "But I also don't want to pretend I don't feel this."
"This?"
"You know what I mean." He was looking at my mouth now, grey eyes dark. "Don't make me say it."
"Maybe I want you to say it."
His jaw tightened. For a moment, I thought he'd pull away—retreat into the safety of silence, of denial. "I haven't stopped thinking about you since that parking lot. About the way you looked at me, the way you touched me. The way you didn't flinch." His voice dropped, rough and raw. "I dream about you, Kai. Wake up hard and aching and so goddamn confused I want to punch something."
Heat flooded through me. "Axel?—"
"I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what this makes me. But I know I want you in ways I've never wanted anyone." His forehead dropped to mine. "Tell me that's okay. Tell me I'm not losing my mind."
I answered by kissing him. Not soft this time. Not careful. I poured every ounce of want into it, let him feel what his words had done to me. His hands held onto my borrowed shirt, yanking me flush against him. I could feel the proof of his desire pressing against my hip, and I rolled into it deliberately.
He groaned—low and broken—and spun us, pressing me against the wall.
"We shouldn't do this here." His mouth found my neck, teeth scraping. "Anyone could walk in."
"Then take me somewhere private."
He pulled back, chest heaving, eyes wild. "Kai..."
"I'm not asking for everything." I gripped his cut, keeping him close. "Just... something. Anything. I need to touch you."
The conflict played out across his features. Want versus fear. Need versus doubt.
Then he grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the door.
We barely made it to his room.
The second the door closed, he had me against it, mouth hot and demanding on mine. His hands were everywhere—my hair, my shoulders, sliding under my shirt to find skin. I arched into his touch, gasping as callused palms scraped over my abs.
"You're so—" He broke off, kissed down my jaw. "The way you feel?—"
"Tell me." I tugged at his shirt. "Tell me what you want."
"I don't—I've never—" He pulled back, breathing ragged. "I don't know how to do this."
"Yes, you do." I took his hand, pressed it flat against my chest, let him feel my heart pounding. "Anything you want. Whatever feels good."
He stared at me for a long moment. Then his hand slid down—over my v-lines, my hip, hovering at the waistband of my borrowed gym shorts.
"Can I...?"
"Yes."
His hand cupped me through the fabric, and I bit back a moan. He was watching my face with desperate intensity, cataloging every reaction. When his thumb found the head, traced the outline, my hips jerked involuntarily.
"You like that?" Wonder in his voice, like he couldn't quite believe he was doing this.
"Yes. God, yes."
He stroked again, more confident. I gripped his shoulders, head falling back against the door.
Then his phone rang. We both froze. The ringtone was specific—urgent, military.
