“Do you know whatdementemeans?” he asks, full amusement threading his voice.
I shift, rolling my shoulders like I didn’t just internally commit butterfly murder. “Nope.” I take another sip of whiskey and grin at him. “But it sounded hot.”
That smile of his deepens, just a fraction. “It means insane.”
I hum thoughtfully, setting my glass down. “Yeah, that probably tracks.”
He lets out a quiet laugh, the sound low and unguarded, and it does something very rude to my chest. His gaze lingers on me, like he’s reassessing the situation.
“Good to know you’re self-aware,” he says.
“Oh, I’m extremely aware,” I reply easily. “I just choose not to let it stop me.”
His eyes darken again, that earlier intensity sliding back into place like it never left.
“Clearly.”
“Relax,” I say lightly. “If I were actually insane, I’d be alphabetizing your shelves.”
His huff of laughter is quiet but real. “That would be a dealbreaker.”
“Good to know.” I grin and tap my glass against his. “See? We’re learning so much about each other.”
His gaze lingers a second too long, and for half a heartbeat, the room feels smaller. Charged.
I immediately decide that’s enough of that.
I turn my body just slightly, invading his space again on my terms, all easy confidence and zero introspection. “So,” I say, tilting my head, “are we going to keep standing around pretending this is a book club… or are you going to do something about the way you’ve been looking at me since I first saw you?”
There. Back where we belong.
Silas’s gaze drops to my mouth again, slower this time. Intentional.
“Oh, I plan to do something about it,” he says, “hermoso.”
Before I can respond, he reaches for my glass, takes it without asking, fingers firm around the rim, and turns just long enough to set his and mine on the side table behind us. Careful. Precise.
The second his hands are free, he’s back in my space. One hand slides to my jaw, grip solid, thumb pressing just enough to tilt my head back. His mouth crashes into mine.
It’s not gentle or exploratory like it was in the club. It’s teeth and heat and intent—his lips moving hard against mine, biting just enough to make me gasp before his tongue pushes in, claiming the space as though he expects me to give it to him.
I do.
My hands come up instinctively, fisting in his shirt, keeping him close because I don’t want even an inch between us. He groans into my mouth, deep and rough, like he’s been holding that sound back all night.
The kiss turns messy fast—nips at my lower lip, a sharp tug that has my breath breaking, his tongue sweeping in again like he’s taking exactly what he wants. He tastes like whiskey and control and bad decisions.
Those damn butterflies try to resurrect themselves, but I squash them again.
I tell myself it’s just lust. Just chemistry. Just the way he kisses like he can’t get close enough fast enough. It’s hot.
Nothing more.
Absolutely nothing I’m going to think about later.
I kiss him back harder, biting, matching the heat because this is what I came here for. Not conversation. Not connection.
He doesn’t loosen his grip when I bite back.
