Her gasp is swallowed by the kiss.
That’s what does it.
The sound. The surrender threaded through resistance. The way her body answers before her pride can catch up.
My hand slides into her hair, not gentle, not cruel—just certain. I keep her exactly where I want her, feel the tension in her give way inch by inch as the moment stretches and deepens.
Slower than before.
But no less inevitable.
When I finally pull back, our foreheads touch, breaths tangled, the air between us humming like it’s alive.
“Still with me?” I murmur.
She doesn’t answer with words.
She leans in and takes me right back.
I’ve imagined this a lot. During the chase, during the climb, in every moment, I told myself to focus on the mission, not on the curve of her lower lip. I imagined, and I was wrong.
The reality of her is better. Devastating.
I keep the first kiss gentle. Testing, tasting, learning the shape of her. She's tentative at first—almost shy, like she's forgotten how to do this or never learned in the first place. Like the asshole who made her feel small also made her feel like she wasn't allowed to want.
That thought makes me want to find him and break his jaw.
But then something shifts. Her hand fists in my shirt. She pulls me closer, and then she kisses me back with a hunger that makes my head spin. Makes my blood burn. Makes every rational thought I've ever had dissolve into smoke.
"God." I pull back just enough to breathe. Our foreheads touch. Her breath comes in ragged gasps that match my own. "You're?—"
"If you say 'too much,' I'm pushing you off this cliff."
The laughter surprises me. Bright and warm and absolutely wrong for the circumstances, which somehow makes it perfect.
"I was going to say incredible." I brush my lips across hers—not quite a kiss, just a tease. "Unexpected. Impossible."
"Those are a lot of words."
"I have more."
"Show me instead."
The crevice is narrow, but we make it work. I shift until she's half in my lap, her back against my chest, my arms wrapped around her from behind. It's not graceful—we bump elbows, knock heads, laugh into each other's mouths when the logistics prove challenging.
It shouldn't be sexy. It is anyway.
My hands find the hem of her fleece. Stop.
"Is this okay?"
"Yes." The word comes out breathless. Certain.
"If you want me to stop—at any point?—"
"I don't want you to stop." She turns her head, catches my mouth in a kiss that steals my breath. "Iwantyou to stop asking and start doing."
The fleece comes off. Underneath, she's wearing a thin thermal—nothing special, utilitarian, the kind of thing you layer for warmth rather than appearance. But the way it clings to her curves makes my mouth go dry.
