And I was lying here obsessing over whether a dangerous stranger wanted to fuck me.
Still.
The memory of his closeness returned, vivid and stubborn.
The heat of him beside me.
The sense of contained power in the way he moved.
Kane didn’t fidget. Didn’t rush. Didn’t waste motion.
Everything about him felt deliberate. Controlled.
And something about that control made my imagination run wild.
I tried to stop it.
Failed immediately.
Because suddenly, I was imagining his mouth on mine.
Not gentle. Not tentative.
Slow at first, maybe, testing, deciding.
Then deeper once he committed.
The kind of kiss that erased coherent thought.
His hand sliding to the back of my neck, anchoring me there. The rough scrape of stubble against my skin. The way his body would press closer, solid heat and strength and certainty.
My breath caught.
God.
I shifted under the covers, pulse quickening.
I imagined his hands.
Big. Warm. Careful despite their capacity for damage.
Hands that knew how to fight, how to hurt?—
But maybe also how to hold.
How they’d feel sliding along my waist, learning the curve of my body. Fingers spanning my hips. Pulling me closer, not asking permission because he already knew the answer.
Because I’d already given it.
Twice.
You.
What a thrill that would be. I mean, really.
Heat pooled low in my belly.
I swallowed, suddenly hyper-aware of the empty space beside me.
