Too fast.
Because he’s closer than I realized.
Much closer.
I freeze.
His hand is still around my wrist.
His chest is an inch from mine.
His breath catches.
“Nathan…I…” I start babbling.
But he doesn’t let go.
And he doesn’t step back.
He just looks at me, eyes darker than they were a second ago, jaw clenching like he’s fighting something he’s already losing.
I don’t know what possesses me—panic, adrenaline, relief, every emotion I’ve swallowed—but I rise onto my toes and kiss him.
Really kiss him.
For half a second, I think he won’t move.
And then he does.
His hand slides to the back of my neck, pulling me in, his mouth answering mine with slow, devastating certainty, and the room tilts, or I do, or the world does; I’m not sure.
All I know is that he’s kissing me back.
My back hits the counter.
He lifts me onto it like I weigh nothing, his mouth never leaving mine.
I undo his belt. Toss it. Dr. Doom screeches.
My dress hikes up. His pants drop. And suddenly, we’re colliding, a blur of need and heat.
We end up on the couch. A tangled, messy, beautiful heap of bodies and breath and skin. My head on his chest. His fingers in my hair. We haven’t spoken in ten minutes.
I don’t want to move.
I don’t want it to end.
On the floor at our feet, his phone buzzes again. I’m closer, so I pick it up and hand it to him. I swear I don’t intend to look, yet I can’t seem to keep my gaze averted.
MESSAGE: Taylor Pierce
What? Is this some sort of curse? An ex? A friend? Oh God, what if he really is married…? He opens it. His entire body changes beneath me.
He sits up. Starts dressing. Doesn’t even make eye contact. “I’ve gotta go.”
I sit there, stunned. Still naked. Still hoping he’ll say something, explain—anything.
But he doesn’t.
