Not this.
My eyes burn again.
Because no one has ever made room for the mess without trying to neaten it first.
And maybe that’s why the next thing happens.
Not because I decide.
Not cleanly.
It happens in the ache.
In the firelight.
In the rain.
In the warmth of his body wrapped around mine.
In the maddening steadiness of him.
His mouth is right there.
His breath is warm against my lips.
His thumb is still at the back of my neck like he already knows I’m slipping.
So I tilt my face up and kiss him.
For one stunned heartbeat, he doesn’t move.
Then his mouth answers mine.
And God.
Lightning.
Not soft comfort.
Not warm brandy.
Not careful almost.
Lightning bolts.
They hit so hard I nearly jerk in his arms.
His mouth is hot and firm and devastatingly alive, and the first real taste of him sends a sharp, electric shiver straight through me. My whole body reacts before my mind can catch up—every nerve lighting at once, my skin going hypersensitive, my breath catching so hard it almost hurts.
I hate it.
I hate it because this is what I wanted from Tristan.
This violent, impossible rush.
This heat.
This sense that one kiss could rearrange the whole architecture of a girl.
