Not softly. Not gently.
This is fury. A wildfire of a kiss.
Dragging Flannel straight into it like he belongs there.
Like he always has.
And Flannel?
He takes it.
For one drawn-out, devastating second, Flannel lets it happen.
Lets himself be manhandled. Kissed senseless.
And, yeah, fucking claimed.
Then his fingers twitch, and I swear I see him start to pull Tattoo Guy in.
Like he’d deepen the kiss if the bar wasn’t in the way.
OH. MY. FUCKING. GOD.
I’m about to die.
Right here. In this booth.
Someone call my ancestors. I am not surviving this.
And just when I think I’ve hit my limit, Tattoo Guy exhales against Flannel’s lips and mutters, “Mine.”
With his eyes closed and a small smile playing on his lips, Flannel grumbles, “Yeah, boss. Yours.” His fingers flex, like he might just drag him back in, but Tattoo Guy is already gone.
One second, he’s half-over the bar, tattoos glowing like molten gold.
The next? Back on his side of the bar, calm as death and adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves like he didn’t just detonate my ovaries.
Fuck. My soul has left my body.
My drink sits untouched because I no longer require earthly sustenance.
My brain just short-fucking-circuited.
That wasn’t PDA.
That was biblical.
Like the wrath of an Old Testament god and the hottest scene from an underground art film got drunk and decided to make me question my entire existence.
And then, like a glass of ice water to the face, reality yanks me back.
“Aurora.”
My gaze snaps back to the table.
Thane is watching me. Too still. Too intent. The bar noise blurs, fading into the background.
The warmth in my stomach ices over.
