Her gaze drops to my mouth. Then back to my eyes.
Slowly, like she’s testing the edge of a line, she lifts her hand. Her fingers brush my throat first, just a touch, as if she’s making sure I’m real. My hands slide over her hips as I step even closer, no more space between us.
Then she slides her palm to the back of my neck.
"I don’t want you to leave, Nattie. I want you to come back to bed."
She pulls me down, and her mouth meets mine—harder than it should, like she’s angry at the timing and the feelings and me. I kiss her back, deepening it. My hands pull her hips flush against me, anchoring her before she can change her mind.
She makes a small sound into my mouth, and it’s all the permission I need.
I hook my hands under her thighs and lift. Her legs lock around me automatically, like her body decided before her brain could object.
I walk us back until her shoulders meet the wall.
Pinned, but only because she lets herself be.
My mouth leaves hers just long enough to breathe, forehead hovering near hers, both of us wrecked and still pretending we’re in control.
"You’re going to text me, no more sticky notes next time," I say, my voice rough.
Her fingers tightened in my hair. "Next time?" she asks, as if wondering if that means there’s a future beyond this moment—beyond the Swiss Alps and chalets.
"Yeah, Nattie," I say. "Next time."
She holds my gaze. Her fingers are still in my hair. Neither of us speaks.
This is the part where one of us should say something sensible. Where she reminds me about her job, or I remind her what I'm like. Where we talk ourselves back from the edge. That's how it usually goes.
Neither of us do.
Her eyes dropped to my mouth. Something in her face goes quiet—that particular stillness that isn't peace, it's a decision.
Then her hands tighten and she pulls me down.
She makes a sound—surprise or surrender, I don't know—and then her hands tighten in my hair, pulling me closer, kissing me back like she's been waiting for this.
My other hand finds her waist, sliding under the hem of her yoga top, fingers pressing into bare skin.
She gasps against my mouth, and I swallow the sound, pressing her harder against the wall.
Someone might walk by.
The yoga class is twenty feet away.
I don't care.
Her nails dig into my shoulders, and I kiss her deeper, rougher, until we're both breathing hard and the only thing that exists is this—her body against mine, her mouth, her hands, the way she says my name like it's the only word she remembers.
And then I don't know what happens, but there’s a shift. Some last thread of restraint I've been holding onto for three months snaps clean.
I turn her around.
"Luka—"
"I know the rule." My hands find her hips, bend her forward against the wall. She goes. That's the thing. Her response to me is instantaneous. Her palms press flat against the wallpaper, and she doesn't pull away. "Tell me to stop, and I stop."
She doesn't say stop.
