“Still mad?” he murmured, voice dark and wrecked, breath hot against my skin.
My eyes flashed open. “Yes.”
But my fingers were still in his hair, and I was still pulling him back down to me, and we were kissing again like the world was ending.
Because maybe it was.
And maybe I didn’t care, as long as I could burn with him.
I broke away just enough to breathe, just enough to grab his wrist and pull.
“Room. Now.”
I fumbled with the key card, breath heaving, heart hammering like I’d ran miles. His fingers ghosted over my hips as I swiped it, and the lock clicked. Then we were inside.
And the door slammed shut.
We collided.
There was nothing gentle about the way we kissed. There was no patience, no hesitation, just this frantic ache that had been building for far too long. Every brush of his lips was a question I was too tired to keep dodging. Every press of his body said what neither of us had dared to speak out loud.
It was all hands and mouths and moans. He backed me against the wall again, our bodies crashing like waves. His hands gripped my thighs like he was memorizing the shape of me. I hitched one leg around his waist, dragging him closer, and the groan he let out wasfilthy.
“Christ, Nicola—” he growled, mouth hot at my neck, biting just enough to make me gasp.
“You talk too much,” I breathed, yanking his shirt up, desperate to feel skin. My nails dragged over his abs, and he shuddered.
He grabbed my jaw and kissed me like he wanted toownmy mouth. His tongue tangled with mine, deep and slick and desperate, like we were trying to crawl inside each other.
We stumbled toward the bed, tearing at clothes, hands frantic. My top went first. Then his shirt. Then my bra was sliding down my arms and his mouth waseverywhere—my collarbone, the swell of my breast, down my stomach. He was worshipping, devouring, like he’d been waiting to do this forever and now that he had me, he wouldn’t waste a second.
“You’re unreal,” he murmured against my skin, voice hoarse and reverent. “Fucking dream girl, aren’t you?”
I yanked his face back up to mine and kissed him like a woman starved.
When he finally pressed his hips into mine, when I felt the thick, heavy line of him against me, I lost every last coherent thought.
We grinded together, mouths clashing, bodies moving in sync like we’d always known how to do this. His name fell from my lips like a prayer, and he groaned like it was the first time he’d heard it.
“I want you,” I whispered, raw and honest, voice trembling.
He stilled, his forehead pressed to mine. “You have me.”
And then he kissed me again, slow this time, deep, a promise in every movement.
His hands slid down, gripping the back of my thighs, dragging me flush against him. The friction was brutal andperfect, sparks licking up my spine, my fingers digging into his back as I arched into him.
This wasn’t careful.
This was wildfire.
His touch felt like it too, memorizing me, pinning my hands against the wall when I tried to take control, making heat spread throughout me.
I hate him.
I hate him.
I hate him.
