I silently agree. The part I didn’t expect was that knowing how dangerous this is and continuing anyway would stop feeling like recklessness and start feeling like the only honest thing I’ve done in years. I’ve spent a decade being careful and correct and thoroughly alone, and I have no interest in going back to that.
I reach up and take hold of his collar.
His eyes drop to my hand and come back to my face, and the look in them makes my stomach flip.
He kisses me and brings up his hands to hold my face as he backs me hard against the wall. I pull him in tighter by the collar, andhe throws his weight forward until I can feel how much he wants this. His mouth moves to my jaw, then my throat, and I tip my head back against the wall and let him.
Lev exhales against my skin, low and unsteady, and the sound of it—the evidence that he is just as affected as I am—makes my knees weak. I tangle my hands into his hair and pull, and he groans against my neck and shoves me flat against the wall.
His hands move from my face to my waist, sliding under the hem of my cardigan, and the heat from his palms against my skin after the cold outside pulls a moan from me. He stills when he hears, and his hands involuntarily squeeze my hip bones. When he does it again on purpose, I decide that I am finished being reasonable tonight.
I slip my hands from his hair down to his chest, where I feel his heart hammering under my palm. I look up at him to find his eyes are dark and fixed entirely on me, and the sight of him like this soaks my panties.
I drag his mouth back down to mine as he walks me down the hallway, steering me with his hands still on my waist. Neither of us is particularly graceful about it, but I don’t give a damn. When we reach the bedroom door, he pulls back just enough to look at me, asking for permission the way he always does, and I answer him by reaching back for the handle.
