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His lips go to my lips.

The second I taste him, I yield.

I kiss him back, my tongue swirling around his, my back arching, my fingers digging into the wool of his slacks.

Every one of my movements is eager and hungry.

He stays patient and slow. A lover who adores every inch of me. Who wants to savor every moment.

He’s good at that.

Really, really good at that.

His fingertips brush my thigh.

My thoughts dissolve.

My entire world is his hands and his lips and his cock, hard between my legs.

I want that.

And this.

I’m playing into his game and I’m not sure I’m winning⁠—

And I like it.

My last defense fades away. The part of me that doesn’t want to break after she sticks a knife in his chest steps aside.

He’ll die in a few weeks, yes.

But I might die tomorrow. I can still enjoy tonight.

I knot my hands in his dark hair and hold his lips against mine.

He tastes so good, like mint and Matteo.

Like a memory of an easier time.

He kisses me hard as he backs me onto the bed.

I wrap my legs around him and pull him closer. I savor the feeling of him between my legs.

The way my body screams for the fullness of his cock inside me.

I want that so badly.

And not just for all the romantic implications of us joining as one.

For the sheer physical bliss of him inside me.

It’s not going to happen. He’s not going to fuck me tonight. And that only makes me want him more.

There’s nothing sexier than a man willing to wait for satisfaction.

Still. I don’t have to make it easy for him.

I rock my hips, rubbing my pelvis against his. Mmm. His hardness against my softness. The rough fabric of his wool. The promise of more.