“No,” I murmured, crowding in, “you’re scared of us.”
She pushed at my chest—but didn’t tell me to leave.
Didn’t open the door.
Didn’t look away.
I reached for her hand again, threading our fingers together. “Tell me you felt nothing,” I said. “Tell me it was just PR. Just a contract. And I’ll let go.”
She didn’t say a word.
So I kissed her.
Because I couldn’t take it anymore.
Not the distance. Not the lies.
And definitely not the way she kissed me back like she was just as lost as I was.
I couldn’t stop myself. My hand braced beside her head, the other grabbing her hip, dragging her back against the wall like I needed to feel every inch of her just to breathe right.
“You drive me insane,” I rasped, my voice rough and low.
I didn’t wait. I gripped her thighs and hauled her up, the silky fabric of her dress sliding against my hands as she gasped and instinctively wrapped her legs around my waist. Her hands fisted in my jacket, clutching hard like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to pull me closer or shove me away.
Too late for that.
Her back hit the wall with a soft thud, her body flush against mine, and I dipped my head, burying my face in the curve of her neck. The second my mouth touched her skin—warm, soft, still smelling faintly like vanilla and spice—I knew I was gone.
I kissed her throat hungrily, lips trailing fire down to her pulse. She arched, made a sound that killed me, and I gave in to the craving I’d been holding back since the first time she smiled at me like she didn’t know she was setting me on fire.
“I need them to see it,” I growled against her skin. “Need them to know…"
She shivered, but she didn’t stop me. Didn’t pull away.
I sucked a mark into her skin—right above the collarbone, where no amount of makeup would cover it completely—and felt her tremble against me. Her fingers dug into my shoulders, her head tipping back, exposing her neck like she was offering herself up.
Mine.
The closet was dark, cramped, and stifling—but none of that mattered.
She was already wrapped around me, her breath hot against my neck, nails digging into my shoulders like she didn’t care if she left marks. I didn’t care either. I wanted them. Proof that this was real. That she was here, now, with me.
I hitched her leg higher around my waist. The dress was soft under my hands, but her body—God, her body was molten. Every inch of her was fire and fury, desperation and ache.
My mouth found her throat, her shoulder, the curve where neck met collarbone, and I didn’t stop. She arched into me, hips rolling like a dare, and I answered with raw intensity, grounding her against the wall like we could burn the memory of this into plaster and paint.
There was nothing gentle about it. No slow build. Just teeth and tongue and hands pulling, clutching, taking. She wasn’t soft with me, not tonight. She was wild and angry and broken open—and I met her in that space. Matched every movement, every breath, with my own.
Her scent was all over me, in my lungs, under my skin. My jacket was on the floor. Her dress was bunched between us. And still, it wasn’t close enough. I wanted more. I wanted all of her.
Her back hit the wall with each movement. The sound of her breath, the scrape of my belt, the heat between us—this was a storm, not a kiss. A war, not a romance.
And I didn’t care.
She clung to me like I was the only thing anchoring her. But the truth was, she was the one unmaking me—piece by piece, gasp by gasp.
When it ended, we were still tangled. Her legs around me. My hands buried in her hair. Chests heaving. Heart pounding so hard it hurt.
