And I feel it too—this magnetic pull that’s half desire, half destruction.
I swallow, willing my heart rate to settle into a more comfortable beat. I don’t know how long we stand there, and by sheer luck, nobody interrupts the moment.
I don’t even know what this moment is, but it calls to me on a visceral level. It’s like, in slow motion, I feel my defenses dropping, or perhaps dissolving at my feet. I don’t care about keeping them to protect me.
“Fuck it,” I pant, taking a step.
Fisting his jacket, I pull him to me. Our lips collide.
A moment of hesitation, or perhaps surprise on his part, is immediately erased when Xander snakes one hand around my waist to yank me closer and cups the back of my neck with the other.
His tongue teases the seam of my mouth, and I part for him. I might have started this kiss, but he takes over and dominates my mouth, my body, my reactions effortlessly.
God, I don’t think I’ve ever been kissed like this. It’s full of roaring frustration, untamed desire, unleashed emotions.
Xander feels like Zinfandel. Bold, juicy, spicy but smooth. It’s addictive. It’s spellbinding. It’s dizzying.
He groans, stepping forward, forcing me to stumble backward. My back hits the wall while he leaves my waist and cups my cheeks to angle me to his liking.
I feel the kiss in my core, slowly but surely dissolving any objections I had to this union, however short and purely physical it may be.
I melt under his touch, and with it melts any notion of this not being a good idea.
Oh, it’s a terrible idea, but fuck, it feels good. Some mistakes are worth the pain.
“Let’s get out of here,” I murmur into his mouth.
He peels his lips away, resting his forehead on mine, his gaze burning and awakening parts of me that have been in slumber for way too long.
His breath ragged, he stares at me with such intensity, goose bumps sprout on my skin.
He owns me with that look.
It scares and elates me at the same time. We stand there frozen for I don’t know how long.
Having given my consent, I thought he would drag me out of here straight to his bed. But he doesn’t. He remains motionless, his breath fanning my face, our bodies flushed.
Okay, one part of him is in motion: the growing bulge in his pants.
While he pauses, I would expect a sliver of doubtcreeping into my mind, but the hunger in his eyes doesn’t allow for any unease.
“You will be the death of me,” he sighs, the words brushing against my lips.
There’s no edge in his voice, no tease—just quiet, aching resignation. Like he’s already accepted the sentence.
Closing his eyes, he shakes his head slightly. His lashes fanning against his flushed cheeks, he clenches his jaw like he’s biting down on a scream. I can feel the tension rippling through him.
He’s not trying to seduce me. Not trying to win.
He’s unraveling. One shallow breath at a time.
It hits me then.
This isn’t a line. This isn’t a game.
He means it.
Somehow, I’ve gotten under his skin and past his armor, and now he’s standing here, pressed against me, asking me not to do the very thing he knows he can’t stop.
