The temperature in the room changes.
“Yeah,” he says, voice rough. “You are.”
He closes the distance.
My body reacts before my pride can catch up.
Heat floods me, sudden and humiliating.
He stops close enough that I can feel him. The warmth of his chest. The scent of leather and smoke and rum.
His hand lifts, slow, and he doesn’t touch me yet. He waits.
“Tell me no,” he murmurs.
The words are soft.
But they’re not gentle.
They’re dangerous.
I should say no.
I should say I hate him.
I should say I’m leaving.
My mouth opens.
Nothing comes out.
His eyes hold mine. He shifts closer and the front of his cut brushes my skin. The contact sparks through me like I’m made of gasoline.
He tilts his head.
“Darling,” he says again, like a warning, like a prayer. “Tell me to stop.”
My throat works.
I don’t say it.
His mouth drops to mine.
The kiss isn’t sweet.
It isn’t careful.
It’s three years of denial turning into hunger.
His hand slides into my hair and grips, not yanking, just firm enough to anchor me while his mouth takes over like he owns the right to breathe me in.
I make a sound I hate.
Because it’s not anger.
It’s want.
I shove at his chest, more reflex than refusal.
