And that he doesn’t know whether to run from that or ruin it before I can.
His gaze drops briefly to my mouth, then rises again, heavy with a kind of restraint that feels more intimate than a kiss would have.
“Maybe then,” he says quietly, “we wouldn’t still be standing here trying to pretend this is only hunger.”
The worst part is that I can’t tell whether the ache in my chest is from anger, pity, or the terrifying possibility that he’s right.
His hands loosen around my wrists first.
Not all at once. Not like surrender. Like a decision being made in pieces.
The pressure of his fingers eases, then shifts, sliding slowly up my arms until his palms leave my skin entirely for one unbearable second. The loss of contact makes my whole body feel suddenly too aware of itself, too aware of the inches between us, too aware of the fact that I am still standing here when every instinct I’ve ever trusted should have sent me running.
Then his hands rise to my face.
He cups my jaw with both of them, large, warm…careful in a way that steals the breath right out of me. His thumbs settle just beneath my cheekbones, not possessive this time, not rough, just steady, as if he needs to hold my face in place to make sure I’m real. To make sure I’m still here. The contrast of that gentleness against everything jagged in him nearly undoes me on its own.
He bends toward me like he’s trying not to.
That is what makes it unbearable. Not hesitation. Not uncertainty. Effort. The visible strain of a man holding himself back by inches, as if each one costs him more than he wants me to know. His mouth hovers close enough that I can feel his breath across my lips, warm and uneven. For one suspended second the whole room feels balanced on that distance.
Before he can close it, I do.
Not with a kiss. With my forehead against his.
The touch is soft, almost unsteady, but it hits with the force of confession. He stills instantly. His hands stay at my face, warm against my jaw, thumbs resting beneath my ears. My own palms flatten over his chest, over scar tissue, bruises, and the frantic, punishing beat of his heart.
“They never kissed the things they broke,” I whisper.
The words leave me quietly. They land like a wound opening.
His breath catches. I feel it against my mouth. For one impossible second, neither of us moves. The silence around us deepens until it feels underwater, until all I can hear is the rough drag of his breathing and the frantic thud under my hands. When he lifts his head enough to look at me, there is nothing guarded left in his face. Whatever sharpness he usually hides behind is gone. What’s left is stripped raw.
Then he kisses me.
It is not gentle. It is not careful. It feels like he has been trying not to do this for so long that the restraint rots the second he gives in. His mouth hits mine with a force that knocks the breath out of me, deep and hungry from the very first second. When I kiss him back, when I open for him without any pretense of resistance, something wrecked breaks loose in his throat.
His hands leave my face and go to my waist, my feet dragging before I’m off the ground.
The motion is quick, almost rough in its urgency, but his hold is sure. He drags me up his body until my legs go around his waist on instinct. He catches me there like he knows exactly how to hold me, one arm hooked hard beneath my thighs, the other spread wide across my back. The kiss deepens immediately, turns rougher, fuller, almost angry with need. My body presses flush to his, chest to chest, stomach to stomach, and then I feel it, the hard length of him through his sweats, jammed hot between my thighs because of me.
The realization shoots through me so hard I make a sound into his mouth.
He groans in answer, low and broken, hauling me tighter against him, grinding me down just enough that the friction makes my whole body light up. Even through the layers, even through cotton, heat and the mess of our breathing, I can feelhow hard he is. How ready. How badly he wants this. The knowledge turns the kiss feral.
There is nothing polished about it. It is messy in the way real hunger is, teeth catching, lips parting too fast, breath getting stolen and chased, mouths finding each other again like they can’t bear even the smallest separation. He kisses like he is furious with himself for wanting me this much and even more furious that it changes nothing. I kiss him back like I’ve already lost the argument with myself and know it.
My hands slide into his hair.
That undoes something in him. I feel it happen. His whole body tightens, another sound dragging out of him, lower now, almost pained.
I taste whiskey on him, water, and the darker, warmer taste of wanting held back too long. His grip on me is possessive without being careless, firm enough that I know exactly how much strength he is using not to shake. My legs tighten around his waist. His mouth turns even deeper at that…devouring. When he shifts his hips to keep me from slipping, the thick press of him between my thighs makes my breath shatter.
He breaks the kiss for one ragged inhale, forehead knocking briefly against mine, lips still brushing mine as if he cannot stand the loss of contact long enough to breathe properly. His eyes flash open, blown dark. Whatever he sees in my face destroys the last of his control.
The bedroom door slams open under the impact of his shoulder.
He carries me through it still kissing me, still holding me like he means to fuse me to him. Then his back crashes hard into the bathroom door down the hall, the thud echoing through the space, jolting through both of us.
