“I don’t?—”
“Don’t what? Don’t know? Don’t want?” His hand catches mine, stills it. “Or don’t trust yourself to say it out loud?”
“You’re infuriating.”
“I know.”
“You never follow directions.”
“Not the boring ones.”
“You treat structure like a suggestion and choreography like a starting point and you have absolutely no respect for?—”
“Control?” He’s smiling now, that real smile that makes my chest ache. “Maybe that’s because I’ve seen what happens when people try to control everything. They miss the moments that matter. The unexpected. The spontaneous. The beautiful accidents that make life worth living.”
“Accidents cause injuries.”
“Sometimes.” His free hand rises, hovering at my cheek without quite touching. “And sometimes they create something better than anything you could have planned.”
“This is a terrible idea.”
“Probably.”
“We’re partners. Professional partners. We have a showcase in three weeks, and emotional entanglement will only?—”
“Isadora.”
“—complicate things, and I’ve worked too hard to throw it away on some?—”
“Isadora.”
I stop. He’s right there, close enough to kiss, close enough that I can feel his breath on my skin and smell that impossible combination of smoke and expensive cologne.
“What do you want?” he asks.
And I’m so tired. Tired of fighting. Tired of building walls and maintaining discipline and measuring my worth in technical perfection. Tired of being afraid of the things I feel and the person I might be if I let myself want something for reasons that have nothing to do with achievement.
“You,” I whisper. “I want?—”
He doesn’t let me finish. His mouth finds mine, and everything I thought I knew about control and discipline shatters.
The kiss isn’t gentle. It isn’t polite or careful or any of the things a first kiss is supposed to be. It’s hungry. Desperate. All the tension of the past weeks igniting at once. His hands are in my hair, pulling it free from the clip I barely remembered putting in. My fingers are twisted in his shirt, dragging him closer, demanding more.
He tastes like wine and spice and something darker—that hint of smoke I’ve noticed before, stronger now, intoxicating.
“I’ve wanted—” he gasps against my mouth.
“Don’t talk.”
“Bossy.”
“Always.”
I pull him back in, and thinking stops. There’s only this. His body against mine. His hands mapping curves I’ve kept hidden covered in professional attire for years. The counter digging into my back as he presses closer, closer, until there’s no space between us at all.
His lips trail down my jaw. My neck. That sensitive spot behind my ear that makes my knees buckle. I feel his smile against my skin.
“Still think this is a terrible idea?”
