She studies me, empathy softening the edge of her profile. “Spotlight can be claustrophobic.”
“Exactly.”
Her shoulders drop another fraction, anxiety traded for connection. My pulse picks up, and I wonder if kissing her here would jog recognition—the way my thumb knew to stroke her pulse then the same way it twitches to do it now.
Another tremor shivers through the car—brief, harmless, but she grips the railing. Instinct overrides strategy; I step closer, aligning our bodies rail to rail.
“Still with me?” I keep my voice low.
“Yes.” The word escapes on a shaky exhale that fans across my collarbone. We’re inches apart, clipboards and maintenance callsforgotten. The only sound is the hush of shared air and the click of metal cooling overhead.
“Your move,” I murmur. “Truth or dare?”
She swallows. “Truth.”
I say: “One thing you want this year that scares you.”
Eyes shutter, open. “To write again. Something just for me. I keep telling myself real life doesn’t leave space.” Vulnerability flecks her voice, and it guts me, how much I want to protect that desire.
I nod, serious. “Good aspiration.”
Those gray-green eyes search my face like she’s trying to place me. My heart hammers: say it, remember me. But the moment tips another direction—into tension so dense it’s almost visible.
“Truth or dare?” she whispers.
“Dare,” I say, knowing it can only go one place.
“Kiss me,” she says, voice barely sound. “Like you don’t care who’s watching.”
Blood roars. “Happily.”
I close the distance, hand bracing the rail beside her head, the other finding her waist. She tilts up; I taste her inhale before my mouth claims hers—soft, then demanding, a collision of stored-up craving. She answers with a sound that detonates caution. My fingers slide under her cardigan and blouse, memorize the curve of her hip.
Somewhere at the back of my mind I know we’re careening toward a line; I plan to stop on the safe side—but her palm skims my ribs, ignites every nerve, and lines evaporate.
The emergency lights sputter, falter, die completely. Darkness engulfs us, erasing boundaries, leaving only touch and breath.
I deepen the kiss, desperate to show her that I’m the same man she met at the ball.She must feel it now, mustn’t she?Her hands fist thefabric of my hoodie, pulling me closer, and the years of practice I have at restraint shred under the heat of her body.
I grip her thighs, lift her as though she weighs nothing, and settle her on the waist-high safety rail. Her heels hook behind my calves, skirt riding up just enough to bare warm skin against my forearms. The new height puts her mouth level with mine—perfect leverage for the kind of kiss that saysremember me, even in the dark.
She grabs the hem of my hoodie, helping me peel it overhead until I’m down to a thin cotton tee.
Nora braces one hand on my shoulder, the other curling around the back of my neck, anchoring me while I explore: kisses along her jaw, the feathery ridge of her ear, the vulnerable line of her throat. Each press earns a soft sound that shoots straight down my spine. My name—Matt—escapes on a breathy plea that almost makes me confess everything. Instead I answer with another lingering kiss, letting my hands memorize the gentle dip of her waist.
Another tremor jolts, clipping the word. She gasps; I steady her, feel her heartbeat slamming against my chest. Panic spikes, then fades as she doesn’t pull back. Instead she presses closer—giving consent without saying a word.
A voice of reason pipes up in the back of my mind:You can’t fuck her in an elevator. So instead, I do something different.
My hands move down, sliding over her hips, then lower, to the hem of her skirt. The fabric is smooth under my fingers, and I can feel the lace of her panties through it. I smirk against her lips, my fingers teasing the edge of the lace. “You’re still fully dressed,” I murmur, my voice low and teasing.
“So are you,” she counters, her hands sliding down to my belt. Her touch sends a jolt through me, and I can feel my dick hardening against my jeans.
I laugh, a low, rumbling sound, and kiss her again, my fingers slipping under the waistband of her panties. She gasps into my mouth, her body arching into my touch. I take that as permission, my fingers sliding lower, seeking the heat I know is there.
She’s wet. Soaking wet. My fingers glide easily through her folds, and she moans, her head falling back, exposing the long line of her throat. I kiss my way down, nipping at her skin, my fingers working their magic. She’s so responsive, her body trembling with every touch, every stroke. The scent of her arousal fills the air, musky and sweet, mixing with the vanilla of her perfume.
“Matt,” she pants, her hands gripping my shoulders. Her nails dig into my skin, but I don’t care. The pain only heightens the pleasure. “What are you doing?”
