His hands lift to my face, slow and deliberate, hands warm against my jaw as his mouth finds mine. The kiss isn’t rushed or hungry. It’s deep. Measured. Like he’s grounding himself in the feel of me.
His lips move against mine with quiet certainty, a lingering press that steals my breath before it ever turns desperate. When I sigh into him, he answers with a low sound in his chest and pulls me closer, our bodies fitting together without thought.
The kiss deepens, not frantic or urgent, just full. Intentional. The kind that saysI’m herewithout needing the words.
“What a night,” he murmurs.
I let out a breath that turns into a soft laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”
His mouth curves, tired and real.
“This feels like the exact moment Dex would kick the door in,” I say. “Usually with commentary.”
“Hang on,” he says quietly, and reaches back to lock the door. “Just so we don’t get interrupted.”
The click is soft.
Final.
When he turns back to me, everything slows. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t reach for me right away. He just looks, steady and intent, like he’s seeing me without the noise or the confusion.
“Come here,” he says.
This time it’s not an invitation.
It’s inevitability.
I move first.
The second my hands slide onto his shirt, his breath breaks. A quiet sound, rough and unguarded, like he didn’t mean to let it out.
“Jesus,” he murmurs against my mouth.
The kiss deepens instantly. Hungrier. Heavier. His hands slide down my sides, firm now, decisive, caressing the sides of my breasts on the way, moving in closer until there’s no space left to pretend we don’t want this.
My body reacts before my brain can catch up.
I make a sound.
His grip tightens.
“Yeah,” he groans. “There it is.”
The words go straight through me.
He kisses me again, slower this time, like he’s savoring it, like he plans to take his time. His mouth drifts to my jaw, my neck, his breath hot.
“Missed that,” he says quietly.
I tilt my head back without thinking, giving him access, and the sound he makes is low and wrecked.
His hands move with purpose, finding what he wants, keeping me close. When I press into him, he swears under his breath.
“Fuck, Sloane,” he says, voice tight.
Not a warning.
A need.
