It isn’t soft anymore.
It’s not tentative or testing the waters.
It’s wildfire—scorching and sudden and out of control.
It’s the kind of kiss that redefines gravity.
It’s me pouring every buried ache, every unmet need, every lie I ever told myself about being fine into the only mouth that’s ever made me forget who I was supposed to be.
And he takes it.
All of it.
Owen kisses like a man on the edge.Like he’s just as desperate.Just as wrecked.
He makes a sound—low, rough, possessive—and it shoots through me like a live wire.My panties?Ruined.My pulse?Not even close to legal limits.
I want more.So much more I ache with it.
“Owen,” I breathe against his jaw, his cheek, his mouth.
His voice rumbles, deep and hungry.“What do you need?”
“Less clothes,” I whisper, kissing down his neck, already working the snaps of his shirt like a woman possessed.
And I am.
Possessed.
By the smell of him.The heat of him.The impossible reality of this—whatever this is.
“Anything you want,” he growls.
Then rip, the rest of the snaps give with a tug that sends goosebumps across my skin.And there he is—bare chest, broad shoulders, carved muscle and just enough dark hair to make my fingers twitch.
“Fuck,” I murmur, my hands sliding beneath the fabric to push it off him.His skin is hot and firm and addictive.
He groans—actually groans—when I drag my nails lightly down his back.
And then it’s my turn.
He tugs at the hem of my shirt, watching me like I’m the answer to every question he never dared ask.When the fabric peels up and over my head, his eyes darken.
He sees my plain white cotton bra.Nothing fancy.Nothing frilly.And he still looks at me like I’m a feast.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he says, voice rough like gravel and reverence all at once.
And he means it.
That sincerity hits me harder than any line ever could.It’s not performative.It’s not to get me naked.
It’s truth.Simple and unshakable.
I swallow, breath catching.
“Pants,” I rasp, going for his belt buckle like I’m the one in charge.
I am so not.
