"Neal—"
"If you won't take care of yourself," he growled, stepping into the room and setting the tray on the small table by my chair, "then I will."
The words sent heat curling through my stomach. Not just the words — the way he said them. Low and rough and leaving no room for argument.
I looked at the bed. At the tray. At Neal, who had clearly been here before dawn, setting this up. Who had made me breakfast and brought it to the one place he knew I'd be.
Who was taking care of me whether I wanted him to or not.
Something cracked in my chest.
"Neal," I whispered.
"Eat," he said. "Then sleep. The bed is for—"
I threw my arms around him.
He went rigid. I felt the shock ripple through the bond — he hadn't expected this, hadn't prepared for contact. But I didn't care. I pressed my face into his shoulder and held on, overwhelmed by the simple fact that someone had noticed. Someone had cared enough to show up before dawn with oatmeal and blueberries and a bed so I wouldn't have to sleep in a chair.
"Thank you," I breathed against his neck.
His arms came up. Slowly, like he was fighting himself. But they wrapped around me, and I felt some of the tension drain out of him.
"You're impossible," he muttered.
"I know."
I pulled back just enough to look at him. His face was inches from mine, his dark eyes unreadable. But the bond between us was anything but — I felt his want, his fear, the desperate longing he'd been suppressing for weeks.
I leaned in to kiss his cheek.
He turned his head.
Our lips met.
The world stopped.
It was nothing like I'd imagined. Not gentle, not tentative. The moment our mouths touched, something broke in him — weeks of denial, weeks of holding himself apart, all of it shattering at once.
He kissed me like he was drowning and I was air.
A sound escaped me — surprise, pleasure, need. Neal swallowed it, his hand fisting in my hair, tilting my head back to deepen the kiss. His tongue swept against mine and I gasped, clutching at his shoulders, my whole body igniting.
The bond roared.
His want crashed into me — raw, desperate, overwhelming. Weeks of watching me touch Cal and James. Weeks of feeling our connection and denying himself. Weeks of professional distance and careful boundaries, all of it crumbling to ash.
He growled against my mouth — actually growled — and then I was moving, my back hitting the wall, his body pressing into mine. My legs came up, locking my heels behind him. I felt every inch of him — the lean muscle under his coat, the heat of him, the evidence of exactly how much he wanted this pressing right against my core.
"Neal," I gasped.
He kissed down my jaw. My neck. Found the spot where my pulse hammered and sucked hard enough to make me cry out.
"Do you have any idea," he breathed against my skin, thrusting his length against my heat, "what it's been like? Watching you. Wanting you. Feeling everything through the bond and pretending I didn't—"
He broke off. His whole body shuddered.
Then, abruptly, he stepped back.
