Isn’t smart.
It’s exactly how people make mistakes they can’t undo.
Say something cold. Something cruel. Remind her who you are. What you’ve done.
But I don’t. I just sit there, my fingers aching from my tight grip, my attention lowering to her lips like a fucking addict.
“Kiss me, Raffael,” she whispers. “Make the wound fresh. Remind me how easy it is for you to act like you care.”
My stomach knots.
She’s dressing it up like a dare, as if that’ll make it hurt less when I give her exactly what she’s asked for.
“Are you sure that’s what you want?” I growl through the temptation. “Something sterile to decimate your misguided fantasies?”
She swallows. Nods.
My pulse fucking surges.
Fine. If she needs proof I’m still poison, I’ll give her a full dose.
“With pleasure.” I slide a hand into her hair, grip tight, then crash my mouth down on hers.
She gasps, grabbing at my shoulders.
I kiss her like she asked. Cold. Detached. Nothing but pressure and purpose.
That’s all it is.
All it can be.
Her palms move up, framing my face, drawing me closer.
Still, I feel nothing.
Not the catch in her breath. Not the warmth building between us.
This is a controlled detonation. A calculated hit to snap her out of whatever daydream she built in my absence.
I need to remember that.
But then her lips part, and her soft whimper drags through my chest like a fucking blade.
My fingers clench in her wet hair as she kisses me back. Not tentative. Not unsure.
Certain.
Her mouth claims mine like it was made for this. Forme.
It’s madness.
Indulgence.
Stupidity laced with starvation.
And I fucking slip, falling right into the illusion, where her lips feel like mercy and her hands make a liar out of every defense I swore I had.
Fuck.
