"Boone."
"Don't." His voice is strained. "Mara, don't look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you want me to kiss you."
My breath catches. "What if I do?"
His hands tighten on my hips. For a long moment, he just stares at me, a war playing out behind those ice blue eyes. Control versus want. Protocol versus need.
Then he mutters something that sounds like fuck it and his mouth crashes into mine.
The kiss is nothing like I expected.
I'd imagined controlled precision, the same careful discipline he brings to everything else. Instead, it's raw. Desperate. His beard scrapes against my chin as he tilts my head back, one hand sliding up to grip the base of my ponytail while the other pulls my hips flush against his.
I open for him immediately, and his tongue sweeps into my mouth with a groan that vibrates through my entire body. He tastes like coffee and something darker, and when I press closer, I can feel exactly how much he wants this.
How much he's been wanting this.
My hands find his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath his shirt. He's so solid, so overwhelming, and when he walks me backward until my shoulders hit the support beam at the edge of the training area, I don't resist.
He pins me there with his body, one thigh pressing between my legs, and kisses me like he's been starving for it.
"This is a terrible idea." His mouth moves to my jaw, my neck, finding the sensitive spot below my ear that makes my knees buckle.
"The worst," I agree breathlessly.
"Your father would kill me."
"Probably."
"I'm supposed to be protecting you."
I grab his face, forcing him to look at me. "Boone. Shut up and kiss me."
He does.
I don't know how long we stay there, pressed against that beam, learning the taste and feel of each other. Long enough for my lips to swell. Long enough for his hands to find the strip of bare skin between my shirt and my waistband. Long enough for me to seriously consider dragging him back to my cabin and forgetting every reason this is a mistake.
A radio crackles.
"Boone, come in. This is Deck."
We break apart, breathing hard. Boone's eyes are dark, his lips wet from my mouth, his chest heaving.
"Boone. Report."
He fumbles for his radio, stepping back from me. Creating distance that feels physical and necessary.
"Yeah. I'm here."
"Sully's got something. Meeting in fifteen at the lodge."
"Copy. On my way." He clips the radio back to his belt, then runs a hand over his face. "Mara..."
"Don't." I hold up a hand. "Don't apologize. Don't tell me it was a mistake. Don't give me the speech about professional boundaries."
