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“You lost that right the moment you treated me like something you could use and discard.”

His breathing is shallow, lips parted, one hand clenched at his side like he’s seconds away from exploding.

And I let it hang there. The silence between us now isn’t empty—it’s a battlefield. One more word and everything will either burn down… or rebuild itself from the ashes.

With his hand still wrapped around my neck, Nick takes another half-step toward me, eliminating the last sliver of space between out bodies.

With his other hand, he pulls me against him, until there’s no more air, no more distance, no more restraint. His chest presses into mine, hard and steady, like a wall I’ve slammed into—familiar and unforgiving.

“I would never think of treating you like that, Sierra. Never.”

His voice is rough, low, wrecked. Like every word costs him a piece of breath.

“I fucked up. I’m sorry. I was frustrated. Angry at you for what you thought, for what you did. Furious that in five months you didn’t try. You didn’t do a damn thing.”

His forehead leans into mine, his breath hot and unsteady against my lips.

My head tilts into him instinctively—pulled, not pushed. Dragged by something invisible, undeniable. A gravity made of grief and longing and everything we never said.

“Nickolas, you didn’t even want to kiss me,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “You just… did what you wanted and avoided everything intimate. Everything real.”

But I never get to finish. Because his mouth crashes into mine like he’s drowning and I’m the only air he’s ever known. His lips are rough and desperate, a blend of hunger and pain.

There’s nothing gentle about the way he kisses me. It’s claiming and it’s chaotic. It’s messy and wild and perfect. Like he’s been waiting all this time to taste me, and now that he has, he can’t stop.

I gasp, and he uses the moment to deepen the kiss, his tongue parting my lips, exploring, consuming. I moan into him, my knees buckling instantly from the force of it all—of him.

I throw my arms around his neck to keep from falling, but I’m not sure I’m succeeding. Not when he’s kissing me like I’m both the punishment and the salvation. Not when every part of my body ignites under his hands.

His arms wrap around my waist, tight and possessive, pulling me even closer, as if that’s somehow possible. His fingers dig into my back, strong, unrelenting, like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he loosens his grip.

And I kiss him back. With everything. With rage and longing and all the tears I never let fall. Our mouths move like they’re trying to rewrite history—like they’re trying to fix us, stitch us back together with tongue and teeth and heat.

It’s not just a kiss. It’s all of it. The apology. The confession. The regret. The love.

And our bodies?

They scream, “I still want you. I never stopped.”

He lifts me suddenly, effortlessly, my legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, and I feel the tremble in his chest as he exhales into my mouth.

His hands slide down my thighs, anchoring me to him. And then he walks. Fast. Determined. Still kissing me like we’re both starving.

I don’t care where we’re going. All I know is—I’m not ready to let go. Not now. Not ever. Because maybe this is the beginning of us. And I need to feel him like this.

Real. Raw. Reckless.

He doesn’t stop kissing me—not for a second—as he carries me upstairs, his grip strong, urgent, desperate.

Every step echoes with purpose, his lips never leaving mine, his body pressed so tightly to mine that I can’t tell where he ends and I begin.

I can feel the rhythm of his heart pounding in sync with mine, a chaotic symphony of everything we’ve held in for too long.

By the time we reach his bedroom, I’m breathless—not just from the kiss, but from the way he’s looking at me like I’m everything. Like I’m his beginning, his middle, his end.

He walks to the bed and sits down with me still in his arms, never letting me go, settling with his back against the headboard.

I’m straddling him now, his hands resting firmly on my thighs, grounding me to him. His gaze searches mine, and something shifts—the intensity between us softens just enough to make space for something even deeper.