Heart pounding harder than it has in weeks.
Not from the fight.
From her.
Always her.
The second time, I don’t hold back.
She says “Again,” and I oblige without a word, resetting the course like my hands aren’t still shaking from the last time she touched me. Like I’m not painfully aware of every place her body pressed against mine.
She charges.
I meet her halfway.
We spar harder this round—quicker, sharper. Her instincts are getting better. She doesn’t flinch when I feint. She ducksunder a crate swing and slides low beneath a suspended dryer chair. She’s sweating, flushed, breathing hard. So am I.
When she leaps again, I catch her.
Not like last time.
I don’t let her flip me.
I hold her.
Just hold.
Her arms go rigid around my shoulders. Her legs hook around my waist.
We lock eyes.
And something breaks.
I kiss her.
Hard.
No hesitation. No second-guessing. Just heat and instinct and want, crashing through the space between us like a plasma burst.
She doesn’t pull away.
She kisses me back.
It starts as friction—lips pressing, hungry—but quickly turns molten. Her fingers tangle in my hair, tugging. My hands slip under the hem of her shirt, skimming heated skin. She tastes like sugar and sweat and something entirely hers. Something I could get addicted to.
I back her into the wall, gently, bracing one hand beside her head. Her mouth parts on a soft gasp, and I take full advantage, deepening the kiss until we’re both shaking with it. Her hips shift against mine and my pulseslamsbehind my ribs.
Stars.
She’s a firestorm in my hands.
And I want to burn.
Then—
PING.
A sharp chirp slices through the haze.
