Our tongues meet and tangle, a clash and surrender all at once—like something ancient and inevitable, like every story I’ve ever read distilled down to this one moment.
He moves me.
Not gently.
Not carefully.
But not carelessly either.
With intention.
With certainty.
Step by step, he walks me backward until the backs of my thighs hit the edge of the bed, grounding me in something real even as everything else tilts off balance.
I gasp against his mouth.
He answers with a low sound—something rough, almost a growl—that sends a shiver racing down my spine.
His hands move.
Mapping.
Claiming.
Learning.
Sliding down my back, strong and sure, until they find my hips, my curves, my center of gravity—and hold me there like he already knows exactly how I fit.
Like he’s been searching for it.
Like he’s found it.
“David—” I breathe, but it comes out broken, more feeling than sound.
He doesn’t slow.
Doesn’t pull back.
He cups me between my legs from behind, sliding his fingers through my lips and pressing inside with zero resistance.
“Fuck, linda, you’re already so wet for me,” he groans into my mouth.
His mouth leaves mine only to trail lower, along my jaw, my throat, each touch deliberate—like punctuation in a language my body suddenly understands.
Every place he touches sparks.
Every place he doesn’t feels like it’s waiting.
I’ve read about this.
God, I’ve read about this.
The consuming kiss.
The dangerous man.
The moment where the heroine knows she’s already lost.