If I’ll take it.
His hand shifts, cupping my face more firmly now, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw with a kind of careful focus that makes my stomach twist.
Then his mouth opens slightly, and his tongue brushes mine.
The sensation hits low and immediate, sending a shiver straight through me.
I respond instinctively, opening for him, even though part of me is still hesitating—still afraid of getting it wrong, of breaking whatever fragile thing this is before it has a chance to become real.
But that fear starts to dissolve as he deepens the kiss.
Slowly at first.
Then with more certainty.
My body follows his lead, the tension unwinding as his tongue coaxes mine into a rhythm that feels almost too intimate for something so simple.
My pulse kicks harder.
Lower.
Between my legs, heat builds fast, insistent and impossible to ignore.
He pulls back for half a second—barely enough to breathe—then dives back in, his hand sliding to the back of my neck, fingers tightening just enough to guide me.
To hold me there.
I feel it. The shift.
The moment it stops being a question.
He’s not asking me anymore.
He’s claiming me.
And God help me, I want him to.
A tremor runs through me as his thumb brushes the hollow of my throat, his mouth growing more demanding, less patient. I clutch at his shoulders, grounding myself as my knees start to weaken, my body tipping closer into his whether I mean to or not.
My thoughts scatter.
All of them.
Except one.
Don’t stop.
Then—
A shift in the room.
Air moving.
Presence.
I feel it before I hear it.
Heavy boots.