He exhales, slow and frustrated.
My chest tightens. He doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t want me to see whatever is in his eyes right now.
He continues, voice lower, “It wasn’t you. At all. It was them. They’re not good people.”
I stare at him for a moment—his tense shoulders, the way he keeps rubbing his thumb along the leather like it’s grounding him.
“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” I assure him.
He finally looks at me, like he wants to do exactly the opposite of what I just said.
“I hate that rotten world I grew up in and I just don’t want you near it.”
“Okay,” I reply, barely audible, while resting my head on the headrest, turning to him, smiling.
I somehow feel like he just opened up to me, sort of, and the feeling is better than anything. I don’t want to scare him, or ruin it, so I don’t ask. He looks like he wants to keep talking but something stronger is pulling him in another direction. His gaze drops to my mouth for not even a second, but I feel it everywhere. The air shifts.
“Kiara,” he murmurs, barely audible, like he’s warning himself.
I don’t know who moves first. Maybe both of us. It just happens.
The kiss hits immediately. No hesitation, no softness this time. Warm, urgent, hungry, like the bathroom kiss cracked something open in us and now we can’t take it back. I gasp into his mouth and grab the front of his shirt without thinking, pulling him closer. His hand slides to the back of my neck, anchoring me there while he kisses me deeper, slower, then deeper again. He breaks away for a split second, breathing against my lips, his forehead pressed to mine.
“Come here,” he whispers, low and rough.
Before I even process it, his hands tighten on my waist firmly and he lifts me, a tiny sound escaping me as he guides me over the center console. My hand shoots out, grabbing the edge of his seat for balance while my other hand lands on his shoulder. My knees fight a little over the console, but then I finally slide onto him properly, settling on his lap, my knees pressing into the sides of his jeans as I catch my breath.
His hands stay on my waist, holding me there, fingers splayed, grounding but electrifying at the same time. The moment our bodies fit together like that, I feel my heartbeat everywhere. In my ears, in my throat, and low in my lap, sharp and warm.
His lips crash back into mine, harder and desperate. The kind of kiss that steals the air from my lungs. His hands slide from my waist to my ribs, just holding, his thumbs brushing the curve under my breasts in a way that sends electricity straight through my stomach. I gasp and he swallows the sound like he owns it.
The kiss turns deeper. Messier. His breath is shaky against my mouth like he can’t control it anymore. I fist the fabric of his shirt and his hair tighter, pulling him closer, and he lets out alow noise into my mouth, something between a groan and losing every last bit of self-control.
His hands slip to my hips, his fingers digging into my ass just enough to make my whole body tighten. My chest presses to his, feeling his heart pounding through both our clothes.
Mine matches it, beat for beat.
My hips shift instinctively to get closer to him, but his hands are keeping me in place. I lean into him again, lips brushing his like I can’t help it, but his grip tightens and he nudges my hips back, not letting me slide more into his lap.
“Kiara,” the sound of my name is broken by the kisses.
His voice is so low it almost disappears. His forehead drops to mine, both hands steadying me like he’s afraid I might slip away. His breathing too fast, like he’s just outrun something he can’t name.
“Wait,” he murmurs.
I go still, confused and breathless, my fingers still tangled in his hair.
He swallows, eyes shut. “Stop moving.” His voice falters in a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh.
A slow, knowing smile curves on my lips when I realize. I let my head fall into the warm hollow between his neck and shoulder, staying there, letting him have that moment.
He exhales, tipping his head back against the seat, his chest rising and falling under me. The tension softens between us, not gone, just quieter.
For a second, we just breathe.
His fingers find my jaw, brushing lightly over my skin. The roughness of his scars contrasts with the gentleness of the touch. I lean into it without thinking, pressing my cheek deeper into his palm, eyes falling shut.
His thumb drifts lower, grazing my lips, tracing the edge until they part slightly under the touch. When I open my eyes, he’s already there.
