Too close.
We circle again.
His hand brushes my waist.
I follow the momentum and let him take me down.
But I refuse to lie under him.
I twist—sharp, practiced—and pull him down with me.
We hit the mat.
I land straddling his hips.
Our breath leaves us in the same moment.
My palms are on his chest—firm muscle under warm skin. His hands grip my thighs, fingers digging in, not in a possessive way, but in adon’t move, I need a second to breatheway.
His eyes travel from my mouth to my eyes with slow, devastating clarity.
“Valentina,” he says softly.
The way he says my name makes my stomach flip. Not pleading. Not warning. Something else.
“This is a bad idea,” he murmurs.
“Then get up,” I challenge, not moving an inch.
His jaw clenches.
He doesn’t move.
The heat between us thickens—heavy, electric, a pull I feel in the center of my ribs.
My voice lowers. “Do you want me to stop looking at you like this?”
He closes his eyes for a beat, as if that might help him regain control, and when he opens them again, that control is wearing thin.
“I want—” he starts.
Then something in him snaps.
He surges up, hand sliding to the back of my neck, and his mouth finds mine.
The kiss is heat, precision, restraint finally failing. His lips move against mine with surprising softness at first, testing the shape of it, the taste of it, before hunger takes over. His teeth graze my bottom lip; I gasp. He swallows the sound.
My hands slide up his shoulders, fingers threading into his hair, pulling him closer because closeness suddenly isn’t enough. Herolls us smoothly, pinning me beneath him, forearms braced on either side of my head. His chest brushes mine with each breath.
He kisses me like we’ve been building to this for years.
His mouth travels to my jaw, my neck, the hollow beneath my ear—slow, reverent, devastating. My back arches into him. His breath hits my skin in hot waves. His hand slides under my tank top, fingers splayed over my ribs, thumb tracing upward, slow enough to feel every inch of skin rise to meet him.
His voice breaks against my throat. “Tell me to stop…”
I shake my head. “I won’t.”
He groans—a sound that vibrates into my chest—and kisses me harder, mouth claiming mine with the kind of focused desperation that feels like a confession. His hands slide lower, gripping my hips, dragging me up against him until the friction steals my breath.
